


Transfigurations 12:1

by thereinafter (isyche)



Series: Transfigurations 12:1 [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Friends to Lovers, Intrigue, Mutual Pining, Post-Canon, Pre-Trespasser, Slow Build, Unresolved Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-17
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-03-15 16:20:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 85,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3453836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isyche/pseuds/thereinafter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of DA:I, two Divines are unprecedentedly elected and Cassandra and Leliana have to ascend the Sunburst Throne together. Something like a marriage of convenience story, with attempted assassinations, blood magic, religious unrest, Chantry politics, a hazardous tour of Andrastian Thedas, and far too many repressed feelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Skyhold

**Author's Note:**

> Everything here about the inner workings of the Chantry and the various places we haven’t seen is my invention/embroidery on canon and may get completely disproven by Bioware at some point. The World of Thedas vol. 2 was a little helpful about Nevarra and Cassandra’s upbringing, but the rest of that is my extrapolation too. Also, this is set in a world state where the Inquisition supported the rebel mages, both Calpernia and Samson worked for Corypheus, and Vivienne didn't put herself forward for Divine.
> 
> Also, fair warning: the rating is really just for chapter 13.

On a fine day in the spring of 9:42 Dragon, a packet of documents with many ecclesiastical seals and signatures arrived at Skyhold from the Grand Cathedral in Val Royeaux, carried by an equally overdecorated Chantry messenger in a sunburst mask.

When Leliana pried up the thick, elaborate seals, the papers smelled of the incense that always burned in the Divine’s private chapel, carrying momentary painful thoughts of Justinia.

After she shook those off, the words brought only confusion. She paced along her balcony as she read them. It took three passages back and forth for the meaning to sink in, and several more to consider how Cassandra would take it.

Had they even spoken since the victory celebration? Cassandra was always traveling with the Inquisitor, while Leliana remained in her tower with the birds and rarely came down for meals or Varric’s card games or anything else. Holding the strands of her network together took constant attention and calculation, even in these less troubled weeks, and it was easier to maintain proper distance if there were no exceptions.

But now, Leliana hurried down all the flights of stairs and through the great hall, mind full of too many things. The Inquisitor was away again, and the castle was far quieter than it had been at the height of their campaign against Corypheus. “Cassandra?” she called as she passed the war room, putting her head in the door, but no one was there.

Outside, late afternoon sunlight slanted down through the trees into the mostly deserted courtyard. The corner where she often saw the Seeker training from above was empty, but there were clanking sounds coming from the armory.

Leliana pulled open the door, only to be assailed by a wave of smoke and heat. She drew her hood over her mouth and entered.

After the windy battlements, the room was an oven. The fire glowed red with Cassandra silhouetted against it, long curve of her back bent, holding something down on an anvil with tongs and pounding away at it. She was in a forge apron and shirtsleeves, unarmored, instantly distracting in the way Leliana had told herself to ignore for years.

She shifted her gaze away and took a breath through the fabric. “There you are,” she called out. Then her foot struck something on the dark floor. She tripped, cursed, and threw her hand out to break the fall—

And was caught and borne up, back to her feet. “Leliana! I didn’t see you there. You’re all right?" Cassandra’s arm around her was a shock that registered slowly, along with the hard line of her body pressing the heat of the furnace into Leliana’s side and back.

“Idiot apprentices leaving tools in front of the door.” Their faces were too close together. Cassandra was breathing hard after the lunge to catch her. A tingle spread over Leliana’s skin from where they touched, and her heart beat faster, followed by a flash of anger at herself. _Maker, not this still. It’ll only complicate things._ Could Cassandra tell? Surely not, even though Leliana was leaning on her like a graceless drunk. She coughed again and felt her hood fall back. _You got over this long ago. She’s helped you up in battle enough times. Pull yourself together._

Then Cassandra was dropping her onto a bench on the cooler side of the room. She inhaled slowly, rearranged the hood, and composed her face, letting the flush subside, before saying, “What in the Maker’s name are you doing?”

“Beating the claw marks out of my breastplate, after that last dragon.”

“The furnace is smoking dreadfully. You should open a window, or do something with the chimney. Why don’t you just have Harritt or Dagna make you another?”

“I like that one. And I wanted to try my hand at it.” Cassandra glanced back at the anvil and flexed her fingers. “Clears the mind. You never come down here. What did you need?”

Leliana forced her thoughts back to the truly important matter at hand. “There was a messenger from the Grand Consensus.”

Turning away, Cassandra walked to the wall. “Ah. Shall I congratulate you, Most Holy? Kiss your ring?”

“Not the way you think.” She laid the documents in front of her. “Read for yourself. We’ve both been elected. I know it’s unprecedented, but there it is.”

“What? Blessed Andraste!” Cassandra returned to the bench and picked up the top one, eyes widening. “That is what it says. I never expected to be chosen at all. But two Divines? Bride of the Maker, how can it be? And how did that ever pass the college of clerics?” She paused. “The Inquisitor?”

“So they say. If this is the way to start making changes, then it’s the way. We’ve worked well enough together, haven’t we?”

Cassandra nodded, still reading. “But the Inquisitor never mentioned she was pressing for this, of all things.”

“It was a surprise to me, too. I’m still a little shaken. As you’ve seen.” Leliana added extra brightness to her laugh. Nothing else to see here. Just the formidable and notorious Left Hand tripping over herself. Maker, she had to leave. “I need air. Keep that, but when she returns, we should both speak to her. Discuss our next moves.”

“Yes,” Cassandra said absently, not looking up as Leliana left the room, certainly not noticing the extra speed in her step.

 

* * *

 

Both of them. The Consensus’s decree was explicit on that point, even if the rest read like the foremost legal minds of Orlais had collaborated to sound as pompous and circuitous as possible. Cassandra refolded the papers carefully.

She’d expected Leliana’s political skill to win the Sunburst Throne. In truth, deep down, she hadn’t wanted it for herself. _But we plan and the Maker laughs._

Before returning to the anvil, she checked the furnace. The flue was open as it should be and the air seemed clear enough. Leliana must be coming down with some chill after sitting too long in that drafty tower without exercise. Since they came to Skyhold she’d been wrapped up in her birds and webs too much, become more oblique and harder to read. Not that it had ever been easy.

Cassandra pulled her glove back on and pushed the breastplate back into the coals. The worm’s claws had raked it with deep diagonal gouges that were proving more resistant to the hammer than she’d hoped.

How many dragons would she fight in the red habit and crown? The Grand Cathedral’s inner chambers were a beautiful, stifling nest of invisible threats without a straightforward challenge anywhere. And she’d only been on the margins, as Beatrix’s mascot and then Justinia’s enforcer, never at the heart of it.

When the metal glowed a dull orange, she took up the tongs, positioned it at the right angle, and began to strike again, harder. Sparks flew, stinging her face. Her arm was starting to ache by the time the edges began folding together and sealing over.

If Leliana left her shadows she would shine in those halls, without question. _Clang_ _._ The sun through the door had lit up her hair like a stained-glass window of Andraste when Cassandra caught her. _Clang_ _._ Serault glass framed in spring steel, that hid more than it revealed.

Justinia had played the game competently, but it drained her more and more with time. Leliana could be better, with the right protection, support, and tempering for her wilder ideas. And no doubt there would be dragons to slay in some form.

 

* * *

 

The sun had set while Leliana ruminated on the problem, walking the balcony, returning to her desk, walking again. Voices came from below, and she looked out and saw lights across the causeway.

She reached the gatehouse in time to meet Inquisitor Cadash and her party, bruised and scraped from a run-in with stray Venatori. Cassandra was a moment behind her, back in her usual armor, the dragon’s mark still slightly visible down one side.

Dorian greeted them and announced that the other bastards had had the worst of it by far, Sera and Bull proposed a raid on the kitchens, and the three of them sallied off toward the lower kitchen gate. Before the Inquisitor could follow them, Leliana caught her arm. “Ida,” she said, “Cassandra and I want a private word with you in your rooms.”

Ida looked up at them and raised an eyebrow. “Sure. Come on. I have some of that nice cheese they’re looking for. Just don’t tell Sera.”

Up in the Inquisitor’s solar, Ida dropped her gear, then went to the desk and pulled a paper-wrapped wheel from one drawer. “I think Cole left it for me. Come, sit. Want any?” She cut a slice. “It’s Antivan. Pretty good.”

“Not for me, thanks.” Leliana considered the dwarven-style sofa, then perched on the arm.

“Ida. This came from the college of grand clerics today.” Cassandra pulled the Consensus’s decree with its red and gold seals from her coat and held it out. “I suppose Leliana and I did start the breaking with tradition. But why do such a thing and not tell us?”

“Ha! Finally.” Ida bit into her cheese. “I didn’t know if they’d do it in the end. But they came through. Good old grand clerics.”

This idiosyncratic phrasing brought a startled, abrupt laugh from Leliana, then Cassandra too. “Well, I think both of us have been half stunned all day," Leliana said, glancing at her.

“You could say that.” An edge of mirth lingered in Cassandra’s voice, and she didn’t look quite as angry.

“However did you do it?” Leliana leaned forward. “They say the decision was made with your ‘strong persuasion,’ but it’s such a change. So much more than I would expect of the clerics so soon.”

“You balance each other. The way I see it, your Divine still needs two hands,” said Ida. “I had the leverage to make them see it my way, that’s all. Not that I want you to leave. I’ll miss you both here immensely.”

“Oh, but Val Royeaux isn’t so far! And there must be time yet. Things are not at all in order here.”

“Yes,” Cassandra said. “And if this is to happen, we may need the Inquisition’s help, too. There is so much to be done.”

“Of course. It’s at your service. As am I.” Ida hugged each of them, a brisk soldier’s embrace, clapping them on the back. “We should celebrate! Have you told the others?”

“No,” said Cassandra, just as Leliana said, “Not yet.”

They glanced at each other again.

“They should be told,” said Cassandra after a pause. “But … not tonight.”

“I agree. It’s been very sudden,” Leliana said.

“Well, in your own time,” Ida said. “I’ll keep it to myself until you say I can throw you a party.”

Cassandra smiled, a fast quirk of her mouth. “Perhaps. Some night. As for the rest of this one, I think I will spend it in meditation. It seems like the right thing.”

 _Always the right thing_ _._ Leliana had a flash of her kneeling in candlelight, head bent to her sword hilt, silent and perfectly still in the Seekers’ controlled trance. She cleared her throat. “Yes, surely we must pray for the Maker’s grace. I should do the same.”

 

* * *

 

In the rookery, Leliana folded her hands before her small altar and repeated the words of the Chant under her breath. She knew them by heart, but the serenity they usually brought was elusive. She’d thought she wanted this; now it was real and _What if_ s of a hundred different kinds jostled in her head, images of the Sunburst Throne, dying mages and lyrium-twisted templars, the grand clerics, Cassandra’s eyes pleased or disapproving, all adding up to _What if I can’t do the right thing? What if I fail Justinia, all of them, again?_

After what seemed like hours and most of the Canticle of Trials, with her thoughts still anything but settled and the Maker’s grace far away, she shook her head and got to her feet in exasperation.

In one of the crates piled beside the birds’ cages was a scout’s uniform she’d used for certain covert operations. She made sure no one was in the library below before she changed into it, covered her hair, and altered her face with touches of kohl and carmine, red slash of a false scar over deep-circled eyes.

She’d been Linnet a handful of times over the years since she became Left Hand, always only when it was safe. In her mind it was a last-resort stress valve, a needed release to maintain the terrifying, all-knowing, impossibly capable image of Sister Nightingale. Whether she was an archer, a minstrel, or a thief, Linnet had no responsibilities to anyone and nothing to plan. Tonight, no one in the army camp below Skyhold’s cliffs would know her, and she’d leave them with only a vague impression of a fellow soldier who was a good time.

 _This may be the last time,_ she thought as she slipped out the postern gate, easily evading the guard stationed there. _The Divine is so closely watched. And it hardly befits Andraste’s representative on earth, the Exalted Mother of the Orlesian Empire, Sovereign of the Chantry, with the bright light of the Maker illuminating all her darkness—_ Her chest started to tighten. _No more of that now._

The Inquisition’s soldiers were still grateful to be rid of Corypheus and eager to raise a bottle and a song to his downfall. Linnet joined a circle of women around one fire and harmonized with them in a croaking voice that drew laughter, and jokes about her name, once she gave it. She laughed with them, and drank their army-issued wine, and the tangle inside her loosened, and eventually a tall mercenary with dark hair and pretty hands made her a proposition, and one thing led to another.

Later, leaving the woman asleep in her tent, she stood in the dark, looking up at the stars, and felt calmer. _I can play Victoria too_ , she told herself. _I will not fail them._

 

* * *

 

The following days and weeks were a blur. The news got out; Ida got her wish for a party, although Leliana remembered little of it beyond congratulations and joking from non-Andrastian friends and awkward deference from the others; more letters started arriving with insistent questions about coronation plans; the Inquisition’s intelligence activities had to be carefully wound down and transferred; Cassandra spent most of the time dragon hunting with Ida, and when she wasn’t, the two of them barely spoke about any of it, as if a silent mutual decision had been made to put it off as long as possible.

Before she knew it, they were in a crowded carriage rolling toward Val Royeaux, at the center of a great Chantry procession of sunburst banners, omnipresent guards, and revered mothers and bureaucrats full of contradictory advice and elaborate praise; and then they had arrived and were being rushed breathlessly through the ceremonial preparations.

There was one quiet moment in the private chapel, before the coronation, when the flutter of servants had left them alone and they knelt side by side at the statue of Andraste. Cassandra said, “It will be strange, without Justinia.”

Leliana nodded. “She was the center of everything. I keep expecting to see her around every corner.”

Surprisingly, Cassandra touched her hand. “I do believe you and I can do this. Set a new balance. Maker knows no one else here is to be trusted.”

Andraste’s stone eyes looked down on them impassively. Cassandra’s hand was warm and living on hers. Leliana didn’t withdraw it. _I pray your trust is still well placed._


	2. Val Royeaux

Valeria I. A month and she’d not yet learned to answer to the name. It unsettled her. Her parents had given her enough names, Maker knew, but they’d never been replaced.

At least Leliana still called her by her name much of the time, and here in these rooms. The Divine’s wing had been hastily redecorated to accommodate two bedchambers before they arrived. Hers was the old parlor, which opened onto the gardens and where she’d often drunk tea while perching on the tiny, fussy Old Empire chairs Justinia favored.

They were gone now, replaced by heavy dark furniture in the Nevarran fashion, presumably for her benefit. She’d hated those chairs, but she missed them.

“Most Holy?” someone said behind her.

That title was worse. Cassandra turned and moderated her tone when she saw one of the novice pages curtsying by the door, a slight girl of about ten in a habit too big for her. “Yes?”

The girl said, still looking down, “Mother Agathe sent me to ask if you will be attending the council session, Most Holy.”

“Thank you, child. Yes.” The girl bobbed again, picked up her skirts, and ran off.

The little chairs were gone, but she was still waiting in Justinia’s parlor for direction. _No longer Right Hand or Seeker or even Pentaghast. What is left?_

 

* * *

 

In the council chambers, the high windows cast ribbons of multicolored light over the assembled clerics and mothers in their red robes and wimples. Leliana sat at the far side of the room, bareheaded in a simple tunic, leaning over the long table and apparently arguing with Grand Cleric Triana of Val Foret.

When Cassandra made her way to the empty seat beside her, Leliana broke it off and sat back. “You’re not wearing it either, I see. Triana believes I’m setting a poor example for the flock. I say we are all the Maker’s children and should have no marks of distinction in His light.”

“Your Perfection, the Chantry is in such chaos. I merely feel that as much continuity as possible should be preserved. The traditional regalia—”

“I was caught without time to change,” said Cassandra. “Surely we have more important things to deal with.”

“Indeed,” said Leliana. “Many of them. But also many trivial ones, it seems.” She raised her voice. “I call this meeting to order!”

The others stopped talking among themselves and looked toward the head of the table.

“The Maker’s blessings upon you all and this proceeding,” Leliana said. “The first matter for our attention was Grand Cleric Triana’s question about how I choose to dress. That is dismissed. Next—” she looked down at the paper in front of her— “the matter of increasing the guard on the Divines’ wing of the cathedral and our persons.”

“Tevinter is relentless, Most Holy,” said Grand Cleric Zoraya, one of the younger and more sensible of them. “The Imperial Chantry will surely have spies in place. Attempts will be made.”

“They are,” Cassandra said, “but I will not waste Seekers guarding my own door. The few others who remain have a duty elsewhere.”

“But you should have the best,” Zoraya said.

Cassandra gave her a long look, and the cleric dropped her gaze and muttered something sheepish.

“Spies are a constant,” Leliana said. “They can be handled.”

“At least accept a heavier guard in the public streets, Your Holiness,” said Mother Agathe. “After Justinia …”

Agathe had been a friend to Beatrix and a benign presence in the Cathedral since Cassandra first arrived. Her concern was likely genuine. And she had a point. Leliana’s zeal for speaking to the people on their level, by herself, was admirable but not exactly safe.

“Yes, if you insist on going out alone … Victoria,” said Cassandra, “we have plenty of templars who will need retraining. Bring a few of them. Dress them up however you like.”

This drew a smile from Agathe, her sharp eyes crinkling at the corners. Leliana glanced at her, then at Cassandra, and gave a frustrated sigh. “Oh, all right. But an armed guard makes it difficult to do the Maker’s work, and templars are far from stealthy.”

“Take them, or take me,” Cassandra said.

Leliana pushed a strand of bright hair behind her ear and a quick unreadable look passed over her face before she grinned. “Done. I will take you up on that, you know. Valeria.”

“Very good, Most Holy,” said Agathe. “Holies, rather. And, speaking of the public, which of you will preside at this week’s open audience? We have a full list of nobles with petitions to be heard.”

“I had the throne for the last one,” Leliana pointed out, “and alternating was what we decided, no?”

Cassandra suppressed a sigh of her own. “Very well.”

The council went on like that, with other clerics and ministers raising questions that hardly rose to the name of trivial, and nothing substantive addressed, until they adjourned for the midafternoon hour of prayer.

Leliana caught up with her in the corridor afterwards. Everyone they passed in the halls curtsied and moved aside for them, leaving an open stretch of marble floor that followed them as they walked. Even without regalia, they were marked.

“Another council day spent on nothing,” Leliana said. “None of our initial proposals have even seen discussion, and those were the easy ones. I could tear my hair out if it wouldn’t delight Triana.”

“The Chantry is a glacier,” Cassandra said. “It takes time to move the smallest part. I saw it first with Beatrix and you saw it with Justinia. It was why she had us.”

“Yes, and who do we have?” She made an irritated noise. “Ourselves. Ida split the glacier for us and now we have two that are equally slow.”

Cassandra smiled. “I begin to see why Justinia traveled so often.”

“Yes.” Leliana’s laugh was sharp. “I didn’t think I’d say it so soon, but I’ll be glad to leave on our grand tour.”

They entered the long gallery that led to their wing, hung with portraits of previous Divines and interpretations of the Chant and the life of Andraste. Clusters of red- and gold-clad mothers and sisters scattered to the walls.

“You could go along with them sometimes, Leliana,” Cassandra said. “The traditions have such a weight of history behind them. Look at these pictures.”

“No,” Leliana said. “They are beautiful, yes, but the history is not. The clerics—we all—have lost sight of what is truly important. They need to go along with me.”

“Even in the small things? Do you want to drive half the college to rebellion over clothes? Triana is powerful.”

Leliana stopped and frowned at her. “Symbols are not small things. And tell me _you_ are not lecturing me about driving people away.” She picked up her pace and walked ahead.

“I learned from my mistakes in Kirkwall,” Cassandra said. “I thought you had too.”

Leliana kept walking in silence, not looking back at her. Perhaps Justinia had chosen them as a matched pair for obstinacy alone.

When they passed through the arch at the end of the gallery, the halls became equally quiet, with only the occasional masked servant ducking past them.

At the door to her room, Leliana said coolly, “There is still the soiree tonight. The bard coming is an old friend of mine from the north. She sings well.”

Leliana’s “old friends” had always been coming and going, before Haven. “I hope she knows a few songs about Tevinter.”

“We will see.”

 

* * *

 

Cassandra leaned on a pillar off to the side of the greater receiving room, straightening the formal red vestments she’d changed into. She’d already tried a few other spots; in addition to being itchy and stiff with white and gold embroidery, the robes were far too eye-catching, and would-be petitioners kept finding her.

When she glanced up, it was too late to move again; Grand Cleric Victoire was sweeping toward her, dragging a masked nobleman in her wake. “Most Holy Valeria, what a pleasant evening the Maker has granted us for this little reception, no?”

“Indeed,” said Cassandra with a nod. Victoire had opposed the Inquisition and she did not like them, as she often made clear, but that didn’t stop her from asking favors.

“May I present Guy, Comte de Brousse?” Victoire waved a hand at the man. “A family friend. His house is very devout and eager to assist us in the rebuilding efforts.”

De Brousse bowed, his elaborate headdress wobbling. “Your Perfection! I am truly blessed on this evening to be in the presence of both your historic Holinesses. Your virtue and beauty are the talk of the world.” He tried to clasp her hand, then turned the movement into a flourish when she shifted away.

If there was a chance this already odious man could be useful, she would have to play along. “So, you wish to assist with the Maker’s work?”

“You may have heard of my lands? A small territory, but the Maker has smiled on our mining efforts. And we good Andrastians are eager to repay that by smiling on His Chantry in its time of need.” He made another hand motion. The gestures the masked classes used in lieu of facial expressions were often obscure, but his meaning was clear regardless.

“All we ask is a small dispensation,” de Brousse went on. “A trifling question of absolution for a boy from a good family, my wife’s brother. Some silly business with a knife-ear—”

Just more of the same. Cassandra cut in. “Serah, I fear this is hardly a matter for a party. Bring your petition to our audience, if you wish. I must go. Good evening. Victoire.” She left them there and strode out into the room as if seeing someone she meant to speak with.

As she passed through the perfumed, overheated, chattering crowd, which split around her, she thought wistfully of the castle where she had spent her Seeker vigil, with its silent, bright bare rooms and mountain winds and absolutely no one asking for anything.

The gardens were as close as she would likely get tonight. Cassandra made for the open doors.

Outside, the air was clearer and music drifted over from one of the arbors. She walked along the rose hedge toward it, and, rounding the corner, came upon Leliana and her friend singing amid a cluster of lanterns and people. A new setting of the Chant, it sounded like.

Their voices twined around each other and climbed, then Leliana sang alone, a long passage that soared farther. Cassandra stopped there by the hedge.

She’d heard Leliana humming little tunes to herself often enough, and on long days of riding they’d sung tavern songs together to pass the time, but this was of a different kind, pulling at her, calling up the same high places of stillness and serenity she longed for. She stood arrested by the sound, as though any movement might break or disrupt it.

A breeze came out of the dark, cooling her face and carrying the green scent of the trees. The other bard rejoined Leliana, and the voices wove together in a complicated harmony, ascending and descending. By the time they spiraled back down to earth, Cassandra’s irritation had evaporated, replaced by a confused kind of elation that felt silly and a desire to both clap and fade into the background. She settled for standing where she was.

 

* * *

 

Phebe Sandovale was from the northern Free Marches, fair-haired and delicate, with a face that looked meek until she opened her mouth, a steel-trap memory, and impressive skill at composition, all of which served her well in her lines of work. When Leliana called on her, her information was always as good as her arrangements.

Now, she played the last few notes and smiled, face glowing with the exhilaration of the song. “Bravo,” she said, “er, Your Perfection.”

“And you. Well done!” Their voices had always meshed well, and Leliana had missed the fun of singing with another trained musician. “You must leave a copy of this piece for us. It is exquisite.”

“Shall we do another?”

Cheers and claps of assent came from the people around them.

“I’d like to, but my voice is already tiring. So out of practice.” She took Phebe’s arm. “And I’m dying to hear about your travels.”

“Very well.” Phebe stood and made a little bow with her lute. “After you?”

The crowd parted for them and Leliana led her out of the arbor.

In the shadows at the corner of the hedge was Justinia. Leliana’s fingers sank into Phebe’s arm a second and she almost gasped before she looked again and saw Cassandra, too tall, out of place in the traditional vestments, and somewhat lost. “C—Valeria! I didn’t see you there.”

“I was just listening,” Cassandra said quickly.

“Oh. You should have come in.” Leliana paused, covering for her shock, forgetting that she’d been annoyed with her. “This is the friend I told you of.”

Phebe bent over Cassandra’s hand, which Leliana could tell made her more uncomfortable. “Most Holy. I’m honored.”

Cassandra cleared her throat. “Thank you.” She looked at Leliana and then away. “I know little of music, but that was beautiful. Truly. Befitting the Chant of Light.”

Her awkward sincerity forced Leliana to crush a tiny, stupid thrill of affection.

Phebe didn’t notice and responded flippantly, “Why, thank you, ever so. I strive to please.”

“Andraste is more responsible than I,” Leliana said. “Phebe and I need to speak in private. I leave the party in your hands. I saw Victoire about. Don’t stab her. Or anyone.”

Cassandra laughed, relaxing, as she’d intended. “I can’t, even should I wish it. You’re right that the robes are … inconvenient.”

“You see? I’ll make a radical of you yet.”

 

* * *

 

“I never thought I’d see the Divine’s bedchamber,” said Phebe, gazing around with a grin. “Where are all your frowning Andraste statues and edifying texts from the boring parts of the Chant? This is far too comfortable.”

Leliana laughed and drew her to a seat near the fire. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“I have to ask. How did it come about, the two of you? How does it work with you and her in the same place?”

“Let’s just say this is a time of very great change for the Chantry, and I hope we can sustain it.” She turned to the sideboard. “I have tea things here, if you’d like some?”

“Please.” Phebe leaned her lute against the chair and warmed her hands while Leliana hung the little enameled kettle to boil and set out a few iced cakes on a plate.

“We’re safe to talk here. So, you played for the Magisterium, yes? What can you tell me?”

“I did. A good number of them, at any rate, and possibly the Archon. No one would give me a straight answer on who he was.” Phebe took a pink cake and nibbled on it. “The magisters may officially disavow Corypheus and all his works, but they’re quite eager to find ways to capitalize on them. And with all the shaking up you’re doing in the Chantry, the Imperial Chantry seems especially keen to present itself as a strong, stable alternative and win over opponents of the Inquisition. But none of them are sure what you’ll do.”

She named several magisters in particular as ones to watch, and then gave more detailed reports on several specific matters she’d been assigned. Leliana sipped tea, asked questions, and took notes in her private code.

By the time Phebe was finished, the fire was burning low and the tea was gone. She bit into the last cake and sighed with satisfaction. “Just like old times, Leliana. Or must I call you Victoria or Your Holiness now?”

“Not unless you want to.”

Her lips curved into a slow smile and she set down her teacup. “Well.”

After a moment, Leliana smiled back. There was no point in breaking important connections over small things, as someone had told her earlier that day, and Phebe was quite talented.

 

* * *

 

Cassandra had stalked around the edges of the party and made reasonably polite and pious conversation with everyone who approached her until she couldn’t stand it anymore. Fortunately, by that time it was starting to wind down and she could make a judicious exit.

Back in her chamber, she rid herself of the headdress and itchy overrobe on her own. A maid was unnecessary, and she wanted no one entering in her absence, as she’d told the household sisters.

It was common Seeker protocol to keep her sleeping places secure and check for signs of intrusion. Tonight the wardrobes and chests were still locked and appeared untouched, but the Nevarran monstrosity of a bed was rumpled when she’d left it neat, and its curtains might have been moved.

Cassandra took a gauntlet from her armor chest and inspected each curtain, sweeping her hand down the heavy tapestry folds. At the top of the back post, clamped between the fabric and the wall, she found something she hadn’t expected: an odd little device that whirred when she touched it. As she pried the thing away from the wood, it hissed and spat a needle that glanced off her mailed wrist.

 _Tevinter is losing no time_ was her first thought.

Her second was to hurry down the hall to Leliana’s chamber.

When there was no answer to her knock, her worry mounted. The door was unlocked; she pushed it open. “Leliana?”

A dying fire flickered in the hearth across the room. In front of it, a discarded tea tray. Leliana in the chair beside it, head back and eyes closed, the other bard bent over her, kissing her neck and the pale curve of her shoulder where the shirt fell away, light hair against red. Small noises she’d never heard Leliana make. Creeping mortification in the pit of her stomach that twisted harder when Leliana’s eyes snapped open and she pushed the other woman away. “Maker’s breath, Cassandra!”

“My apologies,” she said stiffly, averting her eyes, suspecting she was blushing like a templar under a chastity vow. “But it cannot wait. This was planted in my room tonight.” She held out her hand. “Poison.”

Leliana leapt up from the chair, tugging her shirt back into place. “What? Show it to me. You didn’t touch it? Good.” She swept up one of the tea saucers and tipped the device and needle from Cassandra’s gauntlet into it.

“We need to search this room,” Cassandra said.

“Yes. Phebe, stay where you are,” Leliana said as she held the device up to the lamp and peered at it.

The bard sat back on her heels by the fire, watching them with deceptively wide eyes.

Leliana took a lumpy roll of linen from one drawer, unrolled it, and began comparing the needle to several small vials, while Cassandra went to her bed and looked at the canopy. It was more elaborate, Orlesian, with curling gilded trim everywhere, and far too many niches and crannies.

“It might be Carta-make,” Leliana said. “The poison isn’t anything I recognize. You should clean or burn anything it touched, to be safe.” She transferred the needle into an empty vial and threw the saucer into the fire, then came to help Cassandra.

An exhaustive search of the bed, the bed curtains, the covers, and the rest of the furniture turned up nothing.

“Has your … friend been in your sight all evening?” Cassandra asked.

“Are you suggesting I did this?” Phebe raised her voice from where she sat. “I’m loyal to the Chantry. I’ve risked my—”

“She is my agent,” Leliana said.

“Newly come from Tevinter,” Cassandra said. “The magisters are persuasive.”

“She’s been with me.”

“They could even have used her without her knowledge.”

“Or anyone here tonight.” Leliana kept her voice low, her gaze a level blue stare. “And we have no shortage of enemies. I do suspect everyone.”

“I leave her to you, then.” Cassandra turned for the door. “I’ll sleep elsewhere. Consider it yourself.”

 

* * *

 

The single candle she’d lit for Andraste burned steadily in the darkness of the chapel, but Cassandra’s thoughts kept flaring off course. She even noticed the chill of the floor and the twinges in her knees, like a raw novice.

Why such an obvious trap for her and nothing apparent for Leliana? If anything, their enemies should be after the Divine with more controversial ambitions. Unless it was someone less skilled at the game with a specific grudge. Or an underestimation of her own skill. Or, on the third hand, a ploy to set them against each other. Or …

Too many thoughts. She waited for them to pass and began the meditation again at the most basic level, simply counting her breaths.

One. Two. What if there were two traps and she just hadn’t found the second? If it were a feint, distracting from the real attack?

Back to one. Two. Three.

Justinia, the Seekers, the Champion, so many others. Anthony. She would not let Leliana fall into that list.

She stayed there, listening to her own breath, hands locked in front of her, fighting to quiet her mind, until the candle burned all the way down. Only then did she stretch out on the floor and sleep.

 

 


	3. Cumberland

Leliana sat back in her saddle as the horse picked its way along the narrow trail overlooking the Waking Sea.

The morning after the poison incident, she’d sent off inquiries to the Crows, to Ida and Dagna at Skyhold, Varric in Kirkwall, and a few other contacts who might be helpful.

She’d also let Phebe go, following a little questioning and a bit more reassurance. The lack of finesse in the job pointed away from her. Not up to the usual standards of the Magisterium or the better players of the Grand Game, unless there was something more on another level that she hadn’t fathomed.

Cassandra had torn a metaphorical strip off the knight-captain of their guard, who came out looking very chastened and immediately tripled the watch on their wing and all exits. Leliana privately doubted it would be useful, but if Tevinter decided to mount an invasion of the Cathedral, they would be prepared.

Finally, their advisers had agreed that moving up their tour of the grand chantries might be just the thing, and now here they were. A small party, incognito, moving on side paths, leaving the flashy retinue to take the main roads as a decoy; her ideal mode of travel, really.

Except that Cassandra had been uncharacteristically terrible company ever since they left. She kept riding far ahead, and if Leliana caught up, shutting down conversation with monosyllables.

Leliana knew she wasn’t happy about passing through Nevarra. The little she’d said about her childhood made it sound like a place better escaped. But it couldn’t be just that.

Or the assassination attempt. They’d dealt with worse in their sleep, even if the device was unusual and the culprit unidentified.

The thought that kept itching at her as she watched Cassandra’s back in the distance was _What if she suspects me?_

_She must still know I wouldn’t use her in the Game. Or want her gone. And besides, I’d never plan something that badly._

Leliana sighed. Cassandra could be awfully touchy about embarrassment for someone with her taste in novels. Maybe it was still only an acute case of that and she could make it up to her.

Until then, she had no one to talk to.

She slowed her horse to fall back beside their templar escort. The captain saluted quickly and the others followed. “Most Holy.”

“At ease, ser,” she said. “All of you.”

They dropped the salutes but looked no more at ease.

“How has your day been?”

“Pleasant, Most Holy,” said the captain, almost saluting again and then dropping her hand.

“Mine as well.” After a moment of silence, she forged on. “So, do any of you know any songs?”

“We know many verses of the Chant, Your Perfection,” the captain said, still hesitant.

“Of course, but I mean other songs. Maybe ‘Andraste’s Mabari’ or ‘The Lay of the Last Wardens’? Or ‘All on a Summerday Morn’? No?”

The templars goggled at her.

“Well,” she said. “It was just a thought. Carry on.” She nudged her horse forward again with another little inward sigh.

The afternoon passed slowly and in silence save for the horses’ footfalls and the rushing of the water below. The views were beautiful but monotonous, the path clear of threats. Eventually, Leliana began mentally composing Chantry policy arguments they could have been having: Qunari converts? Ordination of men? Expanding education? The correct interpretation of Threnodies 6:8?

Just after sunset, Cassandra rode back to them. “Cumberland is not far now,” she said. “I saw it from that rise.”

“The procession must be behind us,” Leliana said.

“Then we can cut over and wait for them by the road.” She swung her leg over and dismounted in a clean motion. “I’m hardly eager to enter the city.”

"As you say.” It had been years since Leliana had seen Cumberland, but its high society was dominated by Pentaghasts of all sorts, from King Markus’s immediate family to distant cousins. _It’s lucky most of them don’t get along,_ she thought wryly , _or we’d all be ruled by Nevarra._

“All we have to do is bless the chantry and stay one night.” Leliana pitched her voice so the templars wouldn’t hear.

“Right,” Cassandra said, tossing her reins over her horse’s ears to lead it off the path.

It was a lovely summer evening, as they went, with the wind off the sea and the sky red and gold and pink behind them. No hardship to walk the horses a while through the trees until they reached the crossroads with the Imperial Highway.

As they descended toward its crumbling arches, a few fat pigeons flew up out of the undergrowth; Leliana unslung her bow and brought them down for dinner.

They set up camp beside the highway and the templars made a fire for the meal. They were dubious cooks, but had been horrified since the start of the trip at the idea of the Most Holy serving them. Not that either of them was much better, Leliana reflected, recalling a night in the Free Marches when she’d tried to make bear meat interesting with the wrong herbs and left it tasting like the bottom of a pond. The next night Cassandra had announced she would do better, gotten distracted, and ended up with charred bones.

So, they could do worse than this serviceable army stew and travel bread, prayed over with the templars and then eaten as the stars came out overhead and fireflies appeared at the edges of the trees. Even if it was in more silence.

The captain took the first watch of the night; the others laid their blankets around the fire, swords to hand, and were asleep instantly, soldier-fashion, with no apparent regard for comfort.

Cassandra had always slept like that in the field, had turned down the very nice bedroom Josephine arranged at Skyhold, and probably slept on the floor in her rooms in Val Royeaux out of the same perversity. Now she was curled with her back to Leliana again, head on one arm, breathing evenly.

 _Whoever planted that lazy trap should never have gotten past me in the first place._ Leliana stared into the fire and thought about ways to make it up to her. When her ideas became too impractical, she gave up and crawled into her own blankets. At least the ground wasn’t rocky here.

 

* * *

 

At sunrise, dark gray clouds had blown in from the east, promising a storm.

While Leliana was trying to help repack the supplies from breakfast and being politely rebuffed, their official entourage came trundling down the Highway from the east, carts and riders and pack animals massed around the great gilded carriage that they weren’t in.

After taking a brief report from the guard commander, Cassandra and Leliana joined the back of the column. In nondescript gear and oilskin hoods, on ordinary horses, they were indistinguishable from the other riders.

The entire procession moved at a walk; it took what seemed like an age, and a light rain began to fall, before Cumberland’s towers and domes came into view.

Outside the walls, clusters of people had gathered under trees and tents to see their arrival, and merchant carts followed hawking food and trinkets. To one side of the road, a white-haired woman in an old-fashioned yellow sister’s robe stood on a box amid a small crowd, shouting. As they approached, her words became intelligible: “Beware the two-headed viper in Andraste’s bosom! Beware the breeders of chaos, the betrayers of Her holy trust, pawns of the demon Inquisition! Oh, for shame! Andraste and the Maker weep together at this sundering of her Chantry!” The woman gestured toward the carriage ahead of them, forming the sign of evil with both hands.

Cassandra made a disgusted noise beside her.

“I’ve heard this in the streets in Val Royeaux,” Leliana said, keeping her voice low. “The same yellow sisters. They sprang up like weeds after the coronation.”

“You’re keeping an eye on it, I assume,” Cassandra said. More words than Leliana had heard out of her all morning.

“Yes. Although I may assign a few more eyes, if it’s spread this far.”

“Pawns of the Inquisition.” Cassandra snorted. “That’s new.”

“Oh, they have all kinds of lovely names for us,” Leliana said. “Whenever you come out with me you’ll hear more.”

Cassandra fell silent again for a while, and the woman’s voice faded into the sounds of the crowd as they passed through the great gates into the streets of Cumberland.

The city was waking up, and the streets, though wide and artfully laid out, were lined with more merchants and citizens of all classes pushing by or waiting to catch a glimpse of the Divines, despite the rain. As they wound their way toward the chantry, bystanders gawked at the golden carriage with its closed windows and cheered or cried out for blessings, while templars in the forward guard called for the people and carts to make way. No one looked twice at the two extra guards under wet hoods in the rear.

The chantry in Cumberland was as spread out as the rest of the city, more of a village in itself than a single building, with a separate school, gardens, and housing for a host of monastic and lay sisters and brothers. The procession rode into the central courtyard, past the school. Through its open windows, Leliana could hear children reciting a wobbly rendition of the Chant; as the carriage passed by, they gathered in the doorways to see.

At the stables, the revered mother, Elfrida, was there to greet them. She was a placid elderly lady who seemed delighted by the need for secrecy, and swept them off to her personal quarters without calling them by name or asking any questions.

Once there, she fussed over them, kissed their hands, offered tea, and apologized for the simplicity of the room. After they both assured her it was more than enough and they needed no help, she had their dry clothes brought in, then bustled off to ensure the chantry was ready for the blessing.

Outside the window, the sky had darkened further, but Mother Elfrida’s quarters were bright with candles and warmed by a long fireplace along one whitewashed wall. The room’s cheerful ordinariness reminded Leliana of the times before Haven when they’d traveled lightly together, sleeping in guest cells in monasteries or sharing inn rooms in small villages.

Cassandra turned away toward the fire and began undressing, efficient and matter-of-fact in her usual way.

There was an embroidered hanging of Andraste blessing the animals on the opposite wall beside the door. Leliana studied it as she got out of her own wet clothes. Stitched a little clumsily, but charming; novice work, or children’s? She decided she liked Elfrida even more for treasuring it.

The simple white robe they’d compromised on, thankfully unlike any of Justinia’s, went over her head. Still looking at the embroidery—a little pink satin nug peeked out from behind Andraste’s skirts: delightful!—she clasped the golden sun collar behind her neck. Except that it wouldn’t fasten right, and kept falling forward each time she latched it.

“Cassandra,” she said eventually, giving in to frustration, “this keeps slipping. Do you mind seeing if it’s broken?”

“Is the catch twisted?” Cassandra came over and examined it.

Leliana bent her head to give her a better view, and told herself she barely noticed the touch. “This place is how a chantry should be, I think,” she said. “It reminds me a little of Mother Dorothea’s. I told stories to the children there, too.”

Cassandra untangled it, let go and laid a hand on her back for a brief second. “Done.”

“Thank you.”

“It reminds me of the chantry in the Grand Necropolis, though you might not think so. I spent hours and hours there telling Mother Nomi I wanted to hunt dragons and run away to enter the Grand Tourney.” She added after a moment, “She discouraged that. Maker bless her.”

Leliana pictured a tiny defiant Cassandra on a war horse with a lance, and her moment of melancholy dissolved. “I can see it,” she said, chuckling and turning around. “Are you ready to face Cumberland?”

“I will have to be,” Cassandra said. “It’s nearly time.”

“Yes. Let’s go."

When Leliana pushed the door open, she surprised a knot of sisters gathered in the hall, who gasped and scattered. She laughed again and made a gesture of benediction after them. “Walk in the light of the Maker, my children.”

Mother Elfrida was at the next doorway to show them into the sanctuary, which was vast, almost as big as that of the Grand Cathedral. The crowd of commoners extended back to the doors, but the seats nearest them were filled with nobles: the greater ones perfectly dry thanks to covered litters or servants with canopies, and the lesser only slightly bedraggled. At least a third of those Leliana recognized were Pentaghasts. A few gray-robed Mortalitasi were among them. Cassandra frowned at this, but walked out beside her without a pause.

When the audience noticed them, there was a wave of murmurs and then quiet descended.

“People of Cumberland,” Leliana said, using her bard’s voice that traveled to the farthest seats, “the Chantry is on the brink of a new era.”

Cassandra’s voice rang out after her. “We must bring together what has been torn apart and right the wrongs that have been done.”

“We pray for the Maker’s peace and forgiveness.” Leliana raised her hands and began the invocation to Andraste.

They traded off parts during the ceremony as they’d agreed, singing and declaiming from the Chant, lighting the flames, offering the incense, water, and flowers. The rumble of thunder and rain outside set a counterpoint. As their actions and voices threaded together in the ancient pattern, a heightened awareness and a preternatural calm filled her. Victoria and Valeria served the Maker as one. It felt right, harmonious, timeless.

She was sorry when the ritual came to an end, but the feeling persisted as the nobles and city leaders rose and filed toward them for their blessing. They made the gesture over head after head, said the words together so many times that their voices were hoarse by the time the last person bowed and muttered a response.

Almost all of the crowd was gone by then, and the heavy front doors stood open. Rain was still pounding down out of a dark sky. A stray gust of wind blew in and made the candles flicker.

Mother Elfrida came up behind them. “Most Holy, that was beautiful. Maker bless you.”

“And you,” they both said, by rote.

“Rain blowing in! Oh my.” The revered mother hurried down the long aisle toward the doors and began to tug on one of them. Cassandra went after her to help her close it. “Thank you, my dear, er, Your Holiness.”

Leliana watched them push the other door shut against the wind. “Perhaps we should ride in the carriage this time,” she called, and Cassandra laughed.

They were expected at the duke’s palace for a state dinner, and arriving like drowned rats was not the way to make an impression on the city’s elite. Besides, it wasn’t far.

 

* * *

 

Their road to the palace passed by the College of Magi. Leliana peered out through the filigree screen of the carriage window at its high dome and spire, now dull and gray with no sun to reflect. It had been closed up for years now.

Something should be done with the building. It belonged to the Chantry, as far as she knew, like all of the Circle buildings. She suddenly wanted to go in and look around.

“Did you ever see inside the College?” she asked Cassandra.

“Beatrix sent me to deal with the Grand Enchanter once or twice.”

“It’s silly to leave such a beautiful place standing empty. We should see what’s there, find a use for it.” She rapped on the front panel. “Stop here, please.”

The driver reined in the horses, and two of their guards unfurled a rain canopy beside the carriage door.

“I am curious about how it was left.” Cassandra climbed out after her and they walked awkwardly under the canopy to the gate, holding their robes up out of the puddles.

The gatehouse was manned by two aging templars of its former garrison, left behind to serve as watchmen. When they opened the door at Leliana’s knock, one fell to his knees, and the other said, “Andraste’s tits!” and then added, “Pardon me. Your Holy Perfections. We don’t get visitors here, let alone—”

“Not to worry,” Leliana said, taking her hand back from the first man. “Please, rise.”

He raised his gray head and got to his feet. “We are your humble servants. Do come in.”

The guardroom was tidy and dry, and the two old men were only too pleased to show them through to the College proper, after more bowing, exclamations, and offers of refreshment. When they reached the first antechamber, Leliana told them kindly but firmly that there was no need to put themselves out any further and they could wait back in the gatehouse.

The halls seemed frozen at the time when Grand Enchanter Fiona left and took the mages with her. Furniture had gone uncovered and was now thick with dust. When they passed through the great rotunda under the Sun Dome, their steps on the stone floor echoed.

Eventually they came upon a series of rooms where Circle administrative records were stored, going back decades. The archivist’s desk opposite the main door was cluttered with open books and scrolls, dried bottles of ink, and dishes from an abandoned meal; Cassandra picked up a book, then sat in the chair to examine it.

The shelves and cabinets lining the walls held the life stories of countless mages, short and confined or shorter and violent. “A very long history of shame,” Leliana said, looking around. “You know my feelings. I won’t be the one to reinstate the Circles. We won’t. They can’t be saved.”

Cassandra’s eyes snapped up to hers. “It was not all shame. The Circle served a purpose. I have seen too many people hurt by mages left to themselves. Mages lost who should have been protected. How will we protect them?”

“The system has been poisoned. Blighted, almost literally." Leliana set both hands on the desk in front of her and leaned forward. This fight had to happen sometime, and it was far better than all the silence lately. She felt a little exhilarated.

Cassandra pushed an open ledger toward her. “This describes a mage found at age eight. I once saw a village razed by another eight-year-old coming into his power, and the boy killed himself when he realized. Would you abandon children to that, or to be trained by the likes of the Venatori?”

“Of course not,” Leliana said. “But we cannot imprison those children.” She was raising her voice, she realized, and modulated it a little.

“It is happening to more children somewhere right now. It will go on until we do something.” Cassandra rose from the chair and walked to the tall window nearby. “The Circle could be a shelter for them. Not a prison.”

Leliana followed. “Did you ever actually read the manifesto by the mage Anders? I did. My friends in Amaranthine knew him and trusted him, and so did Hawke.”

“And look where it got them.”

“That’s my point. He grew up in the Circle. He described it in detail. They drove good men and women to terrible desperation, over and over. And they would again. Inevitably.”

“I am not suggesting that we resume everything in the same way,” Cassandra said. “Kirkwall was a horror. Of course it was.” She turned and crossed her arms, her back to the window frame.

“And so was Kinloch Hold, and the White Spire, and Montsimmard, and any other you care to name!” Leliana made a sound of vexation and threw up her hands.

“Doing nothing is not better.”

“Mages deserve freedom. Templars deserve to be more than jailers chained with lyrium.”

“But simply saying they are free does not make everything fine. They are not game pieces on a table, Leliana.”

“I know!” Leliana slammed shut the ledger on the desk. “They’re our friends, some of them. Cassandra, we are arguing the same side. I’ll prove it to you. But the carriage and the duke are waiting. We’ll take this up again.”

“Assuredly.” She pushed away from the wall, irritatingly contained.

Arguing with her somehow made Leliana into the one who felt like stabbing things. And yet she was pleased, too. She almost wanted to go on and storm at Cassandra about how infuriating and hidebound she could be, just to see how she countered.

It wasn’t the pure harmony of the chantry, but a contrary sort that was comforting. Everything was falling the right way again. She had only to be her old self and keep from pressing too hard at whatever this was and spoiling it.

They retraced their steps through the dusty passages, saying little until they arrived back at the gatehouse. The two old templars bowed and scraped again; Leliana told them they were doing an excellent job and sketched a blessing over their heads before slipping out the door after Cassandra.

The rain had stopped for the time being and they walked out on their own, the guards hurrying to catch up.

As she neared the carriage door, Leliana noticed an unusual projection on top of the axle, then heard an eerie little noise.

 _What —_ she had time to think before Cassandra leaped back from the door shouting something, and she was turning, starting to run, and then struck heavily from behind by a shock wave that threw her down on the muddy road. Air was knocked from her lungs, her face was in a puddle, and she struggled onto her back before blacking out.

 

* * *

 

Leliana’s back ached and the poultice strapped across it stung as she shifted on the divan. The duke’s healer, a mage affiliated with the Mortalitasi somehow, had laid hands on the worst of the burns and said the herbs should clear up the rest.

The blast—some kind of time-delayed chemical explosion, not magical—had destroyed the carriage. Cassandra’s quick reaction had likely saved the driver and the guards nearby, and she’d escaped serious injury. Leliana had asked the healer to spare no expense in treating the others.

The pain in her shoulders fed into the dull burn of anger she felt—at the clumsy efforts to implicate her, yes, and the harm to their people, the petty hurt of ruining a good day. But mainly at herself for allowing it to happen.

Had her intelligence abilities suffered now that she was out in the light, with other concerns? _Do I need a Left Hand of my own?_ Maybe, but there was no one in the Chantry today she’d trust with the job.

She would get answers now. She picked up the quill again and resumed the coded message she’d been writing, short heavy strokes almost tearing the paper. It was the fifth one in a stack that would go out in the morning on the duke’s fastest birds.

Luckily, he was a devout Andrastian, or as far as that went with Mortalitasi always fluttering around the place.

She scratched away at the messages for some time, until a knock at the door startled her.

The knob turned and Cassandra put her head in. Her hair was wet, falling in damp strands on her forehead. “Leliana? You’re awake.”

“Yes. Didn’t they tell you to rest too?”

“The duke has an admirable tournament practice yard.”

“In the rain? You’ll catch your death.” Leliana waved her in.

“It is how I relax,” she said. With a hint of a self-mocking smile, at that. She came to sit on the arm of the divan. “I thought we could talk about mages.”

Leliana laughed with unexpected relief, set her papers aside, and moved her feet to the floor. “Here, sit down properly.”

Cassandra slipped into the seat and held out her hands to the fire. “Ah. It was cold.”

“Did you see our people in the barracks?”

“Yes. They seem as well as can be expected. And you?”

“It’s an annoyance, nothing more. I’ll find whoever is doing this.”

“Good,” said Cassandra, sitting back. “Now, as for the mages. I believe the former rebels are safe enough with the Inquisition for now. It is the new mages being born, the children, that worry me, as I said. And the lost ones who never made it to Haven or Skyhold.”

“Yes.” Leliana sighed. “Me as well.”

“And the Templar Order is floundering. What remains of it. If they are not to be jailers, they need direction, a purpose.”

“Certainly.”

“I have often wished that templars were more like Seekers. Less easily led astray. And so, I said to myself, why are they not?” Cassandra glanced up at her, eyes very amber in the firelight.

She nodded. “Go on.”

“The Seekers also need purpose, and numbers, now that they have returned to the Chantry. I believe we should expand Seeker training greatly. If even a tenth of the templars can learn, cast off the lyrium, it would be a great boon to us. And I think more than a tenth would have the discipline. Commander Cullen, for instance. I thought of asking him to consider it.”

“With your immunity to possession, and no need for lyrium. If we could do it . . .” Leliana ran her fingers through her hair, thinking. “I had a vision of free academies where mages could work and teach children. Seekers might serve as bodyguards, partners in study.”

“I wanted an improved Circle. That is one way to improve it.”

“You’d support it?”

“The name is not important. I want to ensure that both mages and the people are protected from magic. And I want to reform the Seekers. Perhaps they go hand in hand.”

Leliana couldn’t help grinning, incredulous. “I expected more of a fight.”

Cassandra’s laugh was quick and sharp. “We are on the same side. You don’t have to prove it to me. The rest is details, and I’m sure there are many of them to fight over.”

“Yes,” Leliana said, now laughing herself. “Yesterday I made a list, in fact.”

Cassandra leaned further back against the cushions, stretching her legs out, boots on the hearth. “Well, out with it, Divine Victoria, let’s have at it,” she said, and smiled in a familiar way that made Leliana feel nothing was ruined after all.

 

 


	4. Nevarra City

The walls of Nevarra City were high and black and smooth; the crowned skull waved from the gate, a flash of gold in the late afternoon sun against the dark stone.

Cassandra tugged at the scarf around her face, which was too warm for the day and kept falling down. Disguises always felt ridiculous. Leliana’s fondness for them was baffling. Would anyone here even recognize her without it?

In Cumberland, they had quickly made a new plan, jettisoning the rest of the pomp and ceremony of Justinia’s progresses, and retaining only their small personal guard. The injured and the remaining retinue had been sent back to Orlais, along with most of the baggage.

It made sense. They were more suited to rough travel than previous Divines, and impressing nobles with decoration was something she would rather the Chantry did less of. The Val Royeaux clerics would not be pleased, but she couldn’t bring herself to care, and it was a relief to be away from them.

What was more, if the attack had come from within their company, sending two-thirds of it home narrowed the field considerably.

She glanced over her shoulder at the templars, who waited a few yards behind with their horses. Their tongue-tied deference whenever she spoke to them made it hard to tell whether they were hiding anything. It would have been funny if there were no threat.

The portcullis in the gate began to rise, metal squealing. Leliana rode back out of its shadow. “They’re expecting us. Markus’s steward sent this man, and he gave the right countersign.” She nodded toward an unarmed figure on horseback in the gateway.

They followed him into the streets, skirting by carts and wagons and clusters of market stalls. The sun beat down on the paving stones, and everyone they passed seemed subdued by the heat. Even the merchants fanned themselves and retreated into the shade, failing to take much notice of their party.

Cassandra glanced around at the buildings and the monuments that marked every crossroads, looking for familiar sights. Each time there were none. She’d braced herself for awkward memories, not this disconcerting foreign feeling.

She found her eyes resting on Leliana’s back ahead of her, instead. Straight but relaxed; the burns must have healed by now, unless she was covering. She always held herself so lightly, made things look effortless, no matter how difficult.

When they turned onto a wide curving avenue with a row of statues down the center, Leliana slowed to ride beside her. “So, is it all as you remember?”

“No, in fact. I suppose it’s been longer than I thought.” After a moment, Cassandra added, “My uncle is still here in the city. I had a letter from him.”

“Yes. You don’t want to see him, do you?”

“Not particularly, if it can be avoided, but I don’t think it can.”

Leliana chuckled. “I won’t suggest having him kidnapped, but there are other possibilities. Let me think.”

She leaned over her saddlebow and patted her horse’s neck, murmuring something musical and Orlesian. Animals liked it. With people it could be a prelude to an efficient assassination. Both sides of her were always there, being contradictory.

Cassandra shook her head and looked away down the avenue. To their left and right were the polished walls and iron gates of nobles’ city residences, Pentaghasts and Van Markhams. Her parents’ estate had been like these, hadn’t it? She couldn’t remember. Her childhood was the gray of the tombs, and lit with green.

But even if his home had been no place for children, Uncle Vestalus was family, and she owed him her life in at least two ways. Avoiding him was cowardly. She resolved to face him and take his hand, at least.

At the end of the circling avenue, they turned again onto a side road that passed through a series of gatehouses and climbed a hill to the guard barracks of the royal palace. Stablemen took their horses, the templars joined a card game in the guardroom, and their guide led them into the palace through a small gate in one massive carved stone wall.

Inside waited a steward in elaborate black and gold livery. When he saw them and registered the quick sign Leliana made, he spread his arms and bowed deeply. “Most Holy, I bid you welcome in the name of the king. We will keep your arrival as secret as we can. I trust your journey was not too taxing?”

“Thank you,” Cassandra said, pulling the scarf off her face and resisting the urge to scratch.

“Maker smile upon you,” Leliana chimed in. “I know I could use a rest before the chantry. And a bath.”

The steward smiled and ducked his head. “His Grace is indisposed at present, but if you’ll follow me this way, we’ve prepared our best rooms for you up in the guest wing.”

He waved them forward with a sweep of his gold sleeve and they walked into the corridors of the palace, which were blessedly dark and cool.

The passage from the barracks opened into a wider one that led them into a grand entrance hall, where a cluster of Markus’s Mortalitasi advisers stood talking in subdued voices. _From one snake pit to the next, but the serpents here are all gray_ , she thought.

Then one of them turned around, and it was her uncle. Smaller, bonier, but still imposing, his scant hair now matching his robe.

“Cassandra?” he said in a thin, dry tone. “Is it you? Such a transformation. Pardon, I should say ‘Your Perfection Valeria.’ Forgive me.”

It had been a quarter-century and more since she heard that voice. For a moment she was the angry twelve-year-old again, refusing to speak or look back as she followed the Seekers out of the Grand Necropolis.

“Uncle,” she said, at a loss for other words. The rest of the mages were staring and whispering.

He took her hand in papery fingers and bowed to kiss the Divine’s ring. “We heard of you now and then over the years. Such exploits. Your parents must be proud, just as I am. Might you visit them, if you have time?”

“I am merely a servant of the Maker.” It came out brusque, the childish urge to contradict taking over. She calmed her face and signed the routine blessing over him with her left hand.

Leliana glanced at her and stepped forward. “So, you are Vestalus Pentaghast,” she said in that bright charming voice she could put on. “Delighted. What I’ve heard about you is so interesting.”

“Most Holy Victoria,” he said, shifting his gaze to her. “We hear much of you as well.”

She held out her hand and he bent over it stiffly. “Your order fascinates me. We have nothing like it in Orlais or Ferelden. You must tell me all about it.”

“I will escort you to the chantry myself.” Vestalus straightened, the heavy gray silk of his robe rustling. “His Grace’s underground passage is highly secure, I assure you. Ever since the days of—” His eyes flicked back to Cassandra. “Well. I won’t keep you now. Your Holinesses must wish for refreshment.”

“Thank you, my lord,” the steward said. “Through this door, Most Holy.” He hurried to a wide ironbound door beside a painting of some distant relative slaying a wyvern and held it open for them.

The guest wing was opulent in the morbid Nevarran way, old carved ebony and wispy pale draperies and blackwork tapestries full of skeletons, but thankfully without the dust and spiders of the crypts. There were even vases of fresh-cut Andraste’s Grace in their adjoining rooms.

After Leliana praised him, the steward bowed and backed out, saying he would have bathwater sent up right away.

“Markus’s people must have some decent intelligence on us, to know my favorite flower.” She leaned through the door and picked one out of the closest vase in Cassandra’s room to smell it, then tucked it behind her ear. “If not yours. Roses, isn’t it? Red ones.”

They’d never discussed it. Cassandra didn’t especially want to know how she learned these things. “I suppose my taste is unrefined. But the white suits you.”

Leliana’s expression shifted before settling on a grin. “And red would suit you. As they clearly don’t know.”

“Flowers tend to come with skulls here. I was never fond of all the skulls.” She unhooked her baldric and set the sword on the bed. The coverlet was embroidered with tiny Pentaghast sigils.

“Understandable—” Leliana was interrupted when two serving women with a tub came up behind her. “Pardon, pardon.”

“Ah, there you are. Excellent,” she said. “You can set it over in the other room. Thank you so much.”

The women shuffled through, ducking their heads and glancing sideways at them, steaming water sloshing but not spilling as they balanced it.

“You distracted my uncle back there,” Cassandra said. “Thank you. Seeing him was … unexpected.”

“Of course.” Leliana leaned on the doorframe. “I do want to question him about the Mortalitasi. I look forward to monopolizing his conversation quite a bit tonight. I also hear he likes birds.”

“He does. Or at least he did. Falcons, awful things.”

“Oh, but falcons can be lovely.”

“His were not. Little spoiled terrors. But bring them up if you really want him to talk.” The memory of her uncle the necromancer fussing over his finicky birds made her crack a smile.

“I shall.” Leliana returned her smile, pushed away, and stretched. “Right now, that bath is calling me. I may be a while. Knock when you’re ready.” The door closed behind her.

Cassandra’s brigandine stuck to her unpleasantly where it touched her skin, and she had to peel it away. She ran her hand through her hair. Itchy, hot. The idea called to her as well.

She stopped the servants on their way out. “Bring me another bath. Not so much water. Just fill it halfway, and cold.”

  

* * *

 

The passage to the chantry was once a siege escape route, but Markus’s paranoia had apparently kept increasing over the past decades, and he’d taken to using it on all of his rare ventures out of the palace.

It began with a winding, dark stairway that led to a damp tunnel. The city hid many such catacombs, most of which eventually passed under and through the Grand Necropolis and, it was rumored, had once fed into the Deep Roads. As children she and Anthony had dared each other to explore them, but never that far.

Vestalus assured them repeatedly of this one’s safety, which was less reassuring than he perhaps intended.

He walked ahead of them with an orb of light suspended above his hand, and veilfire torches were spaced at wide intervals along the passage. The pale green glow wavered and played over more skulls carved into the walls, of course.

Leliana followed closely behind him and kept up her chatter, asking about the history of the catacombs and then launching into an excited discussion of Nevarran syncretism in the worship of Andraste.

He glanced back at Cassandra once or twice, but was unable to resist the chance to pontificate about one of his favorite topics. She thought she even recognized parts of the lecture that bounced off the wet stone and filled the tunnel. Anyone trying to sneak up on them would be very well informed about recent scholarship on preservation of the dead.

Fire was the way to do it, in her opinion, and dwelling on gruesome details was unnecessary. She looked at the wall carvings instead, which didn’t help.

Leliana seemed to hang on the old man’s every word, gazing at him almost starry-eyed in the green light. She was working very hard at this. Maybe she enjoyed the game of it, or maybe she really was interested in new Tevinter embalming methods. Either way, Cassandra would owe her later.

There was a flicker of gray at the corner of her vision. She turned and her right hand went for her sword hilt before she remembered she wasn’t wearing it. When she looked again, nothing was there.

Very safe.

They must have crossed half the city like this, and she saw several more odd flutters outside the periphery of their light, before Vestalus stopped to unlock a barred iron gate to a broad stairway leading up.

“This leads to the chantry,” he said, turning to address both of them. “I will leave you here, Most Holy, and return to attend the king.”

Cassandra gave him a nod of thanks and went through the gate. Leliana clasped his hand and said, “Such an enlightening discussion,” before she followed.

The stair climbed sharply at first, then ordinary torches began to appear. Finally they reached a wooden door that showed signs of regular use. It opened easily, onto a hallway more familiar than anything Cassandra had seen today.

“This way,” she said. The grand cleric’s chambers weren’t far.

The Nevarra City chantry was very old and very solid. Squat and sprawling, it dated back to the city’s reconstruction after the Third Blight. The colored glass in the long window slits around the statue of Andraste couldn’t hide that the building was designed as a fortress to shelter the people.

And it could hold a considerable number of them. She caught glimpses of the milling crowd already present as they passed the latticed arches around the sanctuary.

Maker, she still wasn’t used to this part. Priestly duties were not part of Seeker practice. Leliana had known only a little more from her time as a lay sister. Somehow neither of them had yet made a fool of herself. Maybe it was Andraste’s intervention.

The new grand cleric’s door was open, and she was bent over a book scribbling notes when they knocked. A slight brown-haired woman, young for the position. A Van Markham, Cassandra thought she remembered. Osilde was not often in Val Royeaux, but seemed dedicated to the work.

“Yes, one moment,” she said absently. Then she looked up and it registered on her face, and she curtsied deeply. “A thousand apologies! Most Holy, come in! I was expecting you, of course, but not quite like this.”

“Our plans changed rather suddenly,” Leliana said. “There may be a late message for you.”

“Well, the people are here and waiting, as you can see.” She waved to the arch opposite her door. “We have everything you asked for, for the ceremony. Er, will you be going out like that?”

Leliana’s voice turned subtly imperious. “You can just show us the way, child.”

Cassandra suppressed a smile. She’d heard that tone from Beatrix a thousand times, and it never failed.

“Yes, Most Holy, right away, apologies.” Osilde curtsied again and gestured toward the door, then walked them out to the entrance herself.

When the audience noticed them, the roar fell to a confused muttering. Cassandra caught questioning looks from those in front, but as soon as Leliana walked into the light before her, took a breath, and sang out her first line from the Chant, the vast room quieted, and from then on it flowed smoothly. They made the offerings and said the words and the prayers, anticipated each other’s movements, like fighting back to back, until the sun set outside.

As in Cumberland, they ended with blessings for everyone who came up to receive them. It was a longer line, and when they got through it, there was another line of people off to the side: elves, some surface dwarves, and ragged humans.

“They are waiting for alms,” Osilde said. “I’ll manage it, if you need to leave, Most Holy.”

Cassandra glanced at Leliana and said, “We would like to help, I think.”

“Yes,” Leliana said, “allow us.”

Sisters brought out small carts of goods and purses, and they helped distribute them. Cassandra felt wholly undeserving of the looks on the people’s faces, but she lifted boxes and shook hands and admired children.

Leliana was better at this, drawing the people out of their timidity to speak to her, saying silly things to the young ones that made them smile. When an old man said, “I never saw a Divine before in my life, and now I’ve seen two at once,” she laughed and kissed him on the cheek and he turned red.

“You are all welcome in the Chantry,” Leliana said. “Please remember that. Andraste’s doors are open to all people, if you feel her calling.”

“Do you really ride on dragons?” a little elven girl said, tugging on Cassandra’s sleeve.

“That story is exaggerated,” she began, then relented and said, “But I did. One time. Not since.”

 

* * *

 

“You see, I thought it would be all right,” Leliana said as they left the chantry afterward, returning through the back passages. “We should be ourselves, something new, not two half-Justinias.”

Cassandra held the door to the stairs. “It was good to do the Maker’s real work, I will say.”

“I believe we can do so much more,” Leliana said. “Tonight it’s back to the Game, though.”

When they descended from the warmth of the chantry into the tunnel, another Mortalitasi was waiting with a ball of light, a younger man, but with the same washed-out skeletal look. He said he’d been sent to guide them back, and then proceeded to do so in silence that became more unnerving the farther in they went.

She watched for the flickers in the dark between torches and tensed herself to fight with her hands if need be, but they made it through the rest of the tunnels and back to the palace without incident.

The state dinner after they returned was a cold and awkward thing that didn’t help her shake the feeling of unease. King Markus slumped in his chair and was unresponsive, while two mages danced attendance on either side and fed him by hand. The courtiers were as closemouthed as their king, the candlelight thin and pallid, and the food all black and white, following a new court fashion, they were told.

Cassandra was seated between her uncle and the king’s brother. Ferdinand Pentaghast made an effort to be jovial, for which she was grateful. He slurped his black beet soup and said, “Seventy-eighth in line, eh? Cousins. Ha ha!” and told her a long story about a Northern Hunter he’d tracked through the mountains. The man was a legend for his unusual tactics, and she was drawn into asking questions and wishing for a way to take notes.

When they served the chilled pheasant in milk aspic, Ferdinand turned to his food and Vestalus interjected stiffly, “I remember a child always pestering me for permission to go dragon hunting. From what I hear your brother would be very impressed, too.”

She took a sip of her pale wine and gave him a level stare. “I think of him every day.”

“I would be honored to take you to the crypt,” he said.

The thought of seeing her family’s preserved shells filled by Fade spirits, Anthony’s eyes opening empty and glowing, made her stomach clench. “That’s not necessary.”

“Most Holy Victoria might wish to come as well. A visit from Andraste’s chosen would bless our great work.”

Now it was political, damn him. Her grip tightened on her knife handle. The dead in the Necropolis were honored and most often harmless; she could not refuse. “Very well,” she said at last.

Leliana caught her eye from across the table and, reading her expression, held out a hand. “Lord Vestalus, settle an argument she and I were having, if you would. Are you fond of birds?”

He turned back to her.

“You may know that they called me Sister Nightingale, but an afternoon of hawking is a delight, I find.”

“I have little time for it these days, but I keep a bird or two in the palace mews,” he said, and they were off.

Cassandra drank the rest of her wine and listened to them go on about falconry for the next several courses. Leliana had never hunted with a bird in her presence, but she was very convincing as an enthusiast. Jesses and lures and hoods and bait and Maker knew what else.

Finally, plates of cheeses and black fruits were brought out, and clear Antivan brandy after them, and then it was acceptable to excuse herself.

 

* * *

 

She was sitting in bed reading an hour or so later when Leliana tapped on the door and came in.

“You were right,” she said, “his birds are terribly spoiled and he can be very tedious about it.”

Cassandra chuckled and glanced up from the book. “Did you only now escape?”

“Yes. But while I was there, the rookery master gave me these.” She laid a handful of small paper rolls on the coverlet. “From the agents I wrote to in Cumberland and maybe even Val Royeaux.”

“Anything useful?”

“I’ll tell you in a moment.” She peeled off the seal on one and unrolled it, scanned the coded letters, then set it aside. “No.” She opened another, discarded it, then picked up a third. “This one is from Skyhold. Oh!”

“What?”

“Dagna says the devices could be Carta-make. Adds she’s impressed by the craftsmanship. ‘Probably the work of an artificer, which is interesting because I didn’t make it,’ she says. She wants to be updated on anything I find out.” Leliana turned the slip over. “There’s a postscript from Ida, saying she’ll ask her old connections.” She looked up. “The Carta? What does the Sunburst Throne matter to them? Someone must be paying them.”

“We helped end their red lyrium trade with Corypheus,” said Cassandra. “And before that, I can tell you, a great deal of their smuggling went to Circle templars.”

“They are losing business, I grant. But to target you and I specifically, this seems more personal.” She folded the message from Skyhold and began to open another.

“Maybe they have a preferred candidate.”

“Hmm.” Leliana studied the slip in her hand. “This is from Kirkwall. Varric is seeing an influx of those street-preaching sisters. He says they came from Starkhaven, and he doesn’t like what he’s hearing from there.”

“Sebastian Vael did not like being pushed back from Kirkwall, and I doubt he approves of us any more now. I’m not surprised he would shelter them.”

“Yes. It’s good to know this. I want eyes in Starkhaven.”

Leliana tucked the two messages away, leaned on the bed, and made quick work of the remaining sealed ones, opening and dismissing them all. “Nothing more of importance.” She straightened and went to throw the discards into the fire. “We should think about going straight to Kirkwall, after this,” she said. “I do want eyes in Starkhaven, but I don’t think they should be ours, right now. Sleep on it, Cassandra.”

Cassandra nodded. “One other thing,” she said as Leliana turned toward the door.

“Yes?”

“I agreed to make an official visit to the Grand Necropolis tomorrow, and to my family’s crypt. It somehow became a matter of state.” She closed her book and glanced out the window toward the distant pale glow over the city center. “If you don’t want to go, I will make your excuses.”

Leliana turned back and raised an eyebrow. “I’d like to. It does interest me. Unless you’d rather I didn’t.”

“I’d appreciate the company.” She paused. “I know they are with the Maker, but now, after everything I’ve seen, I would rather a … cleaner end.”

“I can imagine.” Leliana tugged the hood over her face and opened the door. “I envy that you remember them,” she said over her shoulder as she left.

 


	5. Grand Necropolis

The Grand Necropolis crouched in the heart of the city, towering basalt walls shutting out the life around it. There was a massive ceremonial gate used at the funerals of kings that remained locked at other times, and smaller doors and tunnels at different points in the walls that the mages used in their comings and goings.

Inside was another city of many levels, centuries of architecture and treasures lit by cold magic, preserved and silent, save for the visitors and servants of the dead and their unlucky households.

With Vestalus and a small cadre of other Mortalitasi leaders, they entered through a modest door close to the palace. The disquiet of the previous night had not left her, and Cassandra went armed today, resolved not to be caught out again.

When they emerged on the other side of the wall, the noise of the living city was gone as if it had never existed. Monuments loomed over them. They might have been in the timeless Fade itself.

The green tinge of the light and the smell of the dust cast her back thirty years.Slipping her governesses, getting lost and finding rusty swords in the tombs and practicing the drills Anthony showed her; chasing him in the tunnels as he pretended to be a dragon, on the rare days when he came back from his hunts; fetching and carrying for Mother Nomi in her cell—

“Most Holy?” It was one of the other mages, a smooth-faced woman with an oily voice. “Like any city, we have a chantry here for the Maker and his Bride. Might you wish to see it?”

“I know,” she said shortly. “Thank you.”

The chantry was close to the center of the first ring, a modest two rooms and a statue of Andraste, tiny beside the extravagant tombs that flanked it.

Dust had collected thick on its steps, and the flame inside that should be ever burning had gone out.

Cassandra turned on her heel. “Where is the anchorite who lived here?”

Vestalus cleared his throat and looked away. The smooth-faced woman spoke again. “She passed beyond several years ago, Most Holy. We sought to replace her, but with the recent troubles …”

The news struck deeper than she expected. “I understand.” She pushed through the door, away from the mages.

The cell was as tidy as Nomi had kept it, with only a little dust to mark her absence. Her few possessions were left on the shelves. A book Cassandra had once brought her, an adventure story from Vestalus’s library, sat between her worn copy of the Chant and the edifying essays of Sister Aethelfryth of Wycome.

The little chantry had been preserved in death like everything else here. She could restore the flame, at least, for now.

“Wait here,” she heard Leliana say outside, and then the door opened and closed quietly.

She didn’t interrupt, but sat a little back on one of the worn benches, bowing her head, while Cassandra cleaned the altar and struck a new light. The old mother was in the bosom of the Maker, unquestionably, but she would have hated to see her home in this state.

Looking into the flame, Cassandra sent up a prayer for her soul and those she had cared for, the grieving and the trapped. Another woman would have to be found to take up this solitary post. She resolved to seek one out herself if necessary.

When she had finished, she left the flame burning and they walked out together..

“A lonely place to serve, for the living,” Leliana said.

“It was.” Cassandra looked back. The little fire glowed through the chantry window, a spot of warmth in the grayness. “I’m sure she did not expect children in her flock, but she was kind to us.”

Their steps on the stone echoed off the columns and arches around them as they crossed to where the Mortalitasi were gathered near the entrance to the next tomb, conferring with each other.

Vestalus rose from his seat on a marble plinth. “I personally maintain the family crypt, as steward of our great work here.” He gestured to one side. “This way. If it please you, Most Holy Valeria,” he added.

She gave a sharp nod and looked away.

It was not a place she’d willingly gone near, before, but she knew the direction by heart. Off to the northwest side, four levels down, among the lesser Pentaghast clan ossuaries: the highest-status location her uncle’s influence could get him.

The main stair wound around the center of the Necropolis, wide smooth steps lit by more veilfire, beneath the structure of massive wheels and chains that lowered sarcophagi and loads of building stone through the city-within-a-city.

They circled down without speaking. From time to time, unidentifiable echoes rose up from the deeper levels and subsided. Leliana descended ahead of her, shadow stretching out into the dark, gazing at everything, almost visibly mapping it in her head for future reference. The mages clustered behind them, talking in murmurs and gestures.

After the fourth circle, Vestalus turned off through an arch carved with crowned skulls and raised his staff for light. “Just through here a little way, as you may recall. My own preservation will complete it, being the end of our branch of the line. Unless you choose to return to us.”

No diplomatic response was coming to mind, so she ignored this.

The bones of scores of long-dead Pentaghasts were laid out in the first long room, dry and ancient but orderly. The carved names on the vaults were still legible, and there were offerings of flowers here and there; this was a regularly visited area.

The next few rooms were the same, but the bodies were newer, the preservation more advanced. Thankfully, the Fade spirit within each one stayed asleep as they passed.

When they entered the round chamber that branched into many small crypt rooms, she had to overcome a momentary physical urge to turn back. She made the deliberate choice to follow her uncle under the low arch, ducking where she never had to before.

The other Mortalitasi stayed in the central chamber. Leliana hung back and followed her, still not saying anything. The heavy silence was becoming stifling.

Opposite the archway, in a circle of green light, her parents’ bodies lay. The same dusty finery, the same quiescent expressions and closed eyes, that she recalled from obligatory visits as a child. Fresh sunflower chains were arranged around them.

She lingered, stalled in the familiarity of Vestalus muttering the same prayer he had always said, reluctant to shift her eyes to the next bier. She pictured her mother and father in the light of the Maker, animated as they were in her hazy memories of them living.

Eventually Vestalus moved aside, and she had to go forward and look without reacting.

He was well preserved. The mages had pieced him back together like a broken doll. (She remembered a cherished pottery-headed doll, fallen and smashed, a pot of glue fetched, the fragments rejoined only a little wrong—)

Only dolls, cleverly stitched and stuffed by expert hands. Not her family, not her brother. She took a breath and let it go slowly.

On her exhalation Anthony’s body’s eyelids twitched open, sparks of green in the dimness.

His arm jerked toward her. Meaninglessly, the seeking of a mindless spirit.

Cassandra stepped back, heart battering at the walls of her chest, unable to stand the sight of its aimless movement or look away.

The head lolled to one side, dark hair falling into its eyes, laying bare sutures in the neck. She swallowed down revulsion and sank her nails into her palms.

Then, a hand on her shoulder, and Leliana’s voice in an undertone, ”Maker, though the darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the light.” It was an anchor and a way out. She seized it, closing her eyes to the spirit and letting the words calm her. _I shall weather the storm. I shall endure. What you have created, no one can tear asunder. There is no darkness in the Maker’s light and nothing that he has wrought shall be lost._

Afterward, she turned and walked out.

When Vestalus rejoined her in the chamber outside, she had recovered enough self-possession to say in a clipped tone, “They have been well tended. I thank you.”

“A sacred duty, my dear,” he said, and she found herself hating him again with a child’s unreasoning displaced anger. She knew he hardly deserved it, was angry at herself for it, and did not trust herself to say more.

Leliana, coming out of the archway, gave her a searching look but did not interfere.

When she failed to reply, he nodded and went to speak to the other Mortalitasi. By their gestures and expressions, the others seemed to be convincing him of something. After a while, Vestalus abruptly stepped away and crossed the room back to her.

“As a final presentation for the Divines, my colleagues wish to show the work in progress on the royal sepulcher awaiting His Grace King Markus,” he said. “If you care to follow.”

“Very well.” Anything to get this done.

He led them up a narrow side stair, steep and roughly cut into the bedrock. Three mages followed him, and the others closed ranks behind Cassandra and Leliana.

“So, Most Holy,” he announced, falling into his lecturing tone again, “the entrance to His Majesty’s tomb will be a staircase two hundred feet long, with bas-reliefs on all sides commemorating his historic dynasty, carved by leading stonemasons brought in from the Merchants’ Guild and Orzammar itself. The stone is …”

Cassandra let the words flow around her and watched the other mages instead. Studying their behavior kept her mind out of the crypt, away from the image of Anthony’s horrible questing hand.

They took short strides, hampered by their robes, making her wait on each step for all three to ascend before she could take the next.

As they turned a corner, the three in front began whispering to each other under cover of the lecture. They darted looks back at the four behind. The smooth-faced woman kept adjusting her pale gray sash with shaky hands and then retied it.

Their skittishness made her feel more uneasy. It was no good sign.

After a few more steps of this, she was about to say something to Leliana when the lead mage whirled around, almost tripping, held up his hands, and quavered out a line of syllables. A shimmering field closed around the two of them, blocking out everything.

Leliana cursed beside her and twisted into a defensive stance, a knife appearing in her hand. There was no room to draw her sword in the tight bubble and she felt her movements slowing, but she reached for the will to disperse the magic, readying herself to attack when it came down.

Before she could bring it down, there was a loud crack of stone, then another, and the steps fell away beneath them. She grabbed for the edge, missed, scrabbled, and was falling, tumbling in a cascade of rocks and gravel, down into blackness.

 

* * *

 

Cassandra landed hard on what felt like loose dirt, knocking the wind from her lungs.

She could see nothing, and for the first moments could feel nothing but pain along her side as she struggled to breathe and move.

Eventually it subsided. She tested her arms and legs and decided nothing was broken, then sat up in the dark, gritting her teeth and muttering, “This place. I hate it.”

There was a shaky laugh next to her. “You’re all right, then,” came Leliana’s voice.

“Enough.” Her eyes were adjusting, and she noticed a faint light on the far side of the room, or whatever it was. “You?”

“The same.” There was a scuffling, and then she saw a silhouette rise against the light. “I may need more words with your uncle.”

Cassandra laughed, mirthless and short, and spat out dirt. “Indeed.” She climbed to her feet, felt at her hip for her sword hilt and the air around her for walls, and moved toward Leliana. “I may not love him dearly, but he never struck me as a traitor.”

The light grew stronger as she approached it. She tore through a few layers of spiderwebs and wiped them off her face with her sleeve, shuddering. Then the packed dirt gave way to stonework, and the half-finished excavation opened into a long, low-ceilinged hallway. Leliana was leaning on the wall under a veilfire lamp, her clothes dirt-smeared, face in her hands.

“The stair we went down before, and the machinery,” Cassandra said. “Everything circles it. If we can make it there and climb back up—”

Leliana dropped her hands and looked up. “How far did we fall?”

“Two or three levels at most, or this hole would be our grave.”

“They’ll come for us soon, then.”

They began to walk, quickly. This passage was drier than the tunnel from the palace, and better lit, but the carvings were similar. Up ahead, it curved to the right.

The feel for the place was coming back to her. Her feet wanted to take her that way, and she followed them.

As they rounded the corner, faint sounds and voices came from behind. Wordlessly they increased the pace to almost running, keeping their footfalls soft.

As they were passing through a colonnade lined with urns, she felt the prickling sensation of spellcasting somewhere close by.

Just then Leliana slowed, came to a stop beside a column, her face twisting. “Cassandra,” she whispered. “Take my knives. Now. All of them. Hurry.” She reached into her sleeve and with difficulty opened her fingers to drop one. “Boots. Other sleeve. Lower back.” She doubled over and hissed in frustration.

“What?” Cassandra crossed back to her.

“Blood magic,” she said, through clenched teeth now. “Unless you know the Litany of Adralla, for the Maker’s sake do something fast.” She dropped to her knees, stiffly.

Cassandra knelt beside her, quickly felt for the blade in her other sleeve and tossed it away, then slid a hand down her back to find another in her belt. The sickly cool fingers of mind control crept up her spine, trying to ooze into her head.

“Now—” Leliana’s strained voice became an angry cry as one hand darted for Cassandra’s throat, clawing. The other went for her boot cuff and snatched a knife before Cassandra knocked it away.

Leliana’s fingers closed on her neck, cutting off her air. She grabbed the last knife from Leliana’s boot and threw it to clatter against the wall.

Leliana pushed her back to the stone tiles as Cassandra fought to pry her hands off. The magic was all around her now, almost as suffocating. Two, maybe three sources, not far, on the other side of the wall. She concentrated on the faint glimmer that was the lyrium inside them.

Then Leliana’s grip tightened and it slipped away. Her hands were unrelenting and practiced. When Cassandra tried to twist free, she followed each time, too fast. Leliana would have told her to break fingers, whatever it took, but she renewed her struggle to reach the puppeteering mages instead, ignoring the burn in her chest.

“A tragedy. They must have secretly hated each other,” Leliana said in a tone not hers and laughed, then, “Shut up, you fool,” in another. Her foot hit one of the tall urns and it crashed down, scattering bones; her face convulsed and her eyes cleared a moment. “Now,” she said again, and the moment of lucidity was enough for Cassandra to catch a breath and reverse the hold, pinning her to the floor.

These blood mages were clumsy. She found the elusive thread of lyrium again, fed it with anger, urging it to kindle.

It took all she had to hold Leliana off and maintain her concentration as the mages’ panic fed back into the spell and the eerie choking cold surged over her. She gave it more and more, and the lyrium caught, became a self-sustaining blaze that pulled her energy with it.

Leliana screamed in a chord of two alien voices, then three. The magic receded inch by inch as the lyrium sublimated in the mages’ veins. Too slowly.

Finally, the scream crescendoed and was gone. The air felt free and clean again. The tension left Leliana’s body. Cassandra let her go and slumped, too drained to hold herself up.

Leliana coughed and rolled over. Their eyes met, and they lay staring and unable to say anything for what seemed a long while.

Eventually, she said in her own hoarse voice, “Thank the Maker. I don’t know what I might have …” She trailed off and touched Cassandra’s face, fingers brushing the marks they’d left, light and concerned.

Cassandra’s relief at seeing her still there and human behind the blue eyes, not some swelling abomination, brought with it a unfamiliar crowd of feelings. For a moment, she didn’t want her to take her hand away, wanted to stay there in that reassurance, cling to it however she could—

No. A temporary strangeness, surely. A side effect of the magic or the recoil. Yet when Leliana pulled back, she felt bereft.

“Could you tell where they were?”

The mages. She didn’t know. Cassandra forced herself off the floor, shaking her head, and watched Leliana collect her knives.

“Never mind. They must be close for it to work, yes? I’ll finish this. We can’t stay here.” She picked up a knife, examined it, and returned it to her boot, then stuck another in her belt and left the hall without waiting for a response.

It felt like it must have shown on her face. Cassandra took a controlled breath. Whatever caused this mad thought, Leliana had not seen, it was her own concern, and Mortalitasi traitors were still trying to kill them.

She got the rest of the way to her feet, heavily, and followed into the side passage, drawing her sword.

Her body ached from the effort. Though Seekers boasted of the skill, she could count on her fingers the number of times she’d actually burned lyrium in a living body. Every time it left her useless for hours. Yet they weren’t done here.

Around the corner, she glimpsed Leliana stalking into the next chamber, then heard a scuffle of steps and a muffled yell. When she caught up, there was a sprawled gray form on the ground and Leliana was bending over a knot of others within a circle of scrawled ritual symbols and bloody bowls. A smell of burnt flesh and terrible groaning came from that direction.

_It should have only immobilized them. Maker, what did I do?_ A new dull horror crept up beneath the old one. Even blood mages did not deserve … this. She advanced.

Without hesitating, Leliana cut their throats, one at a time, quick white hands against red, stepping out of the way of the blood. The groans stopped, mercifully.

“I think—” It came out rasping. Clearing her throat was uncomfortable. “I think that was all of them.”

Leliana glanced up and winced. “Don’t try to talk. Maker knows what I did.”

“I’m fine.” This time she sounded like herself, at least.

“And you don’t lie well, never have.” She knelt next to the bodies and began going through their robes, pulling out papers. “These seem important. Ciphered letters, maybe Venatori. I’ll take them for later.”

“There could be more.”

Leliana nodded and stood up. “We should go.” She made the letters vanish into her sleeve somewhere. “This way is a dead end. We need those stairs.”

Cassandra looked around at the room, reached back for the girl who had run surefootedly through these halls in the dark with no map.

“Back to the hall with the urns,” she said.

 

* * *

 

Five or six long hallways later, in another preservation room, just when she was thinking they’d outrun any pursuers, Cassandra felt the spellcasting again. Colder, like a invisible fog rolling in around her.

She held up a hand and Leliana stopped, glancing to her

Then the nearest corpse jerked upright in its sarcophagus and lurched toward them, making a dry rattling in its throat. A second did the same, and another, down the line. Death magic now. Were the other Mortalitasi joining in against them?

She drew her sword painfully and charged the first one, her legs almost refusing to go faster. A cut, another, three cuts before it fell.

Leliana darted among the others, slicing through rotten limbs. They collapsed around her like suitors swooning at a ball.

Cassandra slashed at another one and wondered how out of her head with fatigue she could be. She’d not seen Leliana fight since Haven, and it was hard not to watch now. Like a dance, yes. _A complicated Orlesian one with too many steps and unspoken implications. And knives in the ribs._

One came at Leliana from behind as if to cut in. Before Cassandra could reach it, it caught her shoulders, spun her around, and raked her face with dirty claws.

Leliana twisted away, blood bright on her cheek, and brought both knives to cross its neck, slicing its head off in one motion. Her eyes flashed and she began to eliminate the rest in earnest, with no flourishes.

In the time it took Cassandra to bring down the persistent corpse on the end of her blade, five more were kicking and headless on the floor.

The hall ended in double ironbound doors, and they backed toward them as more corpses rose, then by silent agreement broke and ran for it, pulling the doors shut together behind them with a resounding boom that must have echoed up to the surface.

“Where now?” Leliana panted, putting her back to the door. There was no bar, and the undead would only be confused for so long.

“It has to still be this way,” Cassandra said.

She kept her eyes on the ground and the walls, leery of more strange impulses arising. She was falling down on her feet and halfway to the Fade. Leliana was bleeding. They had to get out. Maker, she would not give them the satisfaction of dying here.

She stumbled ungracefully to the next doorway, leaned through, and felt a relief that was nearly ecstatic at the sight of the stairs, arcing out around the vast circle of air where chains and hooks dangled. Greenish sunlight filtered down from only a few levels up.

The heavy doors creaked and scraped in the hallway.

Cassandra made herself move again, to the steps and up around the curve, Leliana following, then leading and pulling her by the hand, up and up into the light.

They were both gasping for breath and incoherently praising the Maker and Andraste when they mounted the last few steps and came face to face with Uncle Vestalus.

He smiled, and Cassandra’s heart fell.

Then behind him came cries of “Most Holy! Your Perfection!” and their templar guards, faithful after all, were rushing down the stairs to hold off the remaining undead, and Ferdinand Pentaghast was with them, laying his famous dragon blade about with a will.

She wavered on her feet. Leliana bore her up, taking her arm.

“Thank the Maker,” Vestalus said, all pomposity gone from his voice, just a thin gray old man drawn with worry. “When you fell, the others ran and I feared the worst. I could not see you like Anthony. I brought them as fast as I could.”

 


	6. Minanter River

Cassandra leaned on her as they hobbled back through the tombs, letting Leliana take her weight, uncharacteristically. The sun was dipping behind the wall, and long shadows from every column and monument reached in toward them.

Behind, the sounds of fighting died down, and the knight-captain—Elaine, her name was—came running back to hover. “Most Holy, can I assist?” But Cassandra seemed to have gone inside herself, fingers locked on Leliana’s shoulder and trying only to stay on her feet.

Leliana shook her head and felt the drying blood crack on her cheek. “If you want to help, find a closed carriage.” She glanced at Vestalus, who was following on the other side. “The palace is swarming with your people. The chantry instead, for now.”

The carriage Elaine commandeered was a Mortalitasi hearse with shutters and a long covered bed for the last ride of its passenger; easily enough space for them and two of the guard.

They climbed in, smearing blood and dirt over the cushions. Elaine took the driver’s bench outside with Vestalus, and Leliana pulled the shutters closed. When the horses lurched forward, Cassandra caught herself against the back wall with a pained gasp.

The light through the cracks shifted to a proper sunset gold as they passed out of the Necropolis.

 

* * *

 

After a ride that involved more turns and jostling than seemed necessary, the hearse stopped and Leliana climbed out after the two templars to find herself in the chantry stable yard. She gave Cassandra her arm again to cross to the back doors, and Knight-Captain Elaine hurried ahead of them to raise the sisters inside.

When they reached the entrance, the grand cleric was there with a group of sisters and initiates, looking horrified. “Most Holy! What in the Maker’s name … please, what can I do?” She waved them on inside.

“Thank you, daughter,” Leliana said, trying to sound as poised and calm as a Divine should, despite the blood and dishevelment. “Valeria needs to rest. I need a quiet place to think, and our guards need to watch the entrances. For now.”

“You must take my own room,” Osilde said, hurrying along beside them, Elaine following. “This way. Sisters, run ahead and make it ready for them.” She clapped, and the others rushed down the hall ahead of them, flocking through the door of her chambers.

When they caught up, the sisters were putting fresh linens on the grand cleric’s bed and clearing her things out of the way. It was a comfortable bedroom, if a touch austere, with a small fire in the hearth and an armchair and writing table pulled up before it.

“Here you are, Most Holy,” Osilde said. She paused. “I don’t know if it’s relevant, but there was a rider from Val Royeaux earlier with rather a lot of sealed documents for you. I have them in my study. I’ll send them up.” She filled a kettle with water and hung it over the fire. “And someone to tend your injuries? And refreshment.”

Elaine saluted and took up a position outside the door. “Most Holy, I will personally guard this room.”

Leliana gave them both a tired smile and nodded. The sisters filed out, bowing and curtsying, and Elaine closed the door, and finally it was quiet.

“You should lie down,” she said to Cassandra, who had let go of her and stopped in the middle of the room. “I don’t know how you’re standing.”

“Yes. All right. Hold this.” Cassandra went to unfasten her sword belt, grimaced, finished it, and dropped it in Leliana’s hands. “Don’t lose it. I’m fond of this one.” She sat on the edge of the bed and glared down at her boots.

She might as well ask. “Do you need me to—”

“No.”

She worked them off and pushed them aside, added her gloves and mail shirt and gambeson, then fell back onto the grand cleric’s pillow with another wince and closed her eyes.

Leliana put the sword on top of her other things and set them by the foot of the bed.

There was a soft knock on the door. Behind her back, Leliana slipped a dagger from her belt as she opened it a few inches.

The knight-captain saluted again and held out a packet of papers. A middle-aged sister with graying black hair and a basket stood beside her. “Your Holiness, I’m Sister Jocelyn. I know herbs and healing. May I help?”

“Come in.” Leliana resheathed the blade, took the papers from Elaine, and stepped back.

The sister shuffled to the bed and curtsied as she bent down. She hesitantly took Cassandra’s pulse and felt very lightly along her jaw with both hands, then her ribs. A touch on the breastbone made her growl with pain.

“That is at least one crack, there,” said the sister, nodding. “Must bind that up. And something for the swelling and the pain, or you’ll not breathe easy.” She rummaged in her basket.

Leliana moved forward. “May I?” Sister Jocelyn curtsied again and set a bag of dried herbs in her hand, and she sifted through them, smelled, tasted. Elfroot, spindleweed, ordinary medicinals, nothing sinister.

“A sleeping draught, besides,” the sister went on, pulling out another bag. “So your body can rest, Most Holy.”

Cassandra pushed herself up. “Not that.”

“Yes,” Leliana said. “Drink it. I’m awake.”

“I will need to boil water,” the sister said, turning back to the bed and producing a long roll of linen. “Most Holy Valeria, I will need to wrap your ribs. Very carefully, I—”

“There’s water here. Let me.” Leliana brought it from the fire, and Jocelyn mixed a tea that smelled as foul as such things usually did.

Frowning, Cassandra gulped the liquid, then pressed her lips together as the sister reached under her shirt to wind the cloth tightly around her chest. When the wrapping was through, she lay back gingerly, eyes already half closed again. The compliance was more worrying than the injuries.

“Now that that’s done, may I … Most Holy Victoria, your face?”

 

* * *

 

After Sister Jocelyn left her with a neatly bandaged and salved cheek and an extra supply of elfroot tea, Leliana settled in the grand cleric’s armchair and picked up the documents from Val Royeaux.

Cassandra slept now, head thrown back on the pillow. The bruises on her neck were darkening into visible finger marks, which she made herself look at as a knot of shame solidified in her belly. _Just following orders, like you always did, ever since Marjolaine,_ said a mocking voice in her head. _No wonder it was so easy for them._

She shook it off and distracted herself with a mouthful of tea—elfroot on its own still tasted terrible, astringent but bracing—then remembered the letters she’d found on the mages, and prised them out of where they’d gotten wedged in her glove cuff.

The cipher was written in a crabbed, jerky hand, but used a few symbols she recognized from hours of mulling over Venatori messages and code books the Inquisition had collected in the Western Approach. If it was related, she might have another lead to follow. In a wildly different direction.

She shuffled through the creased scraps of paper, then set them down, letting the idea go for now. They would have to be copied and sent to Skyhold for deciphering before she could say for sure. Likely the grand cleric’s secretaries could handle that.

As she was about to turn back to the Val Royeaux packet, there was a knock outside.

“Come in,” she called, softly.

Vestalus Pentaghast opened the door. He glanced at the bed as he entered, and asked, “Most Holy. Is she …”

To ease the vague worry on his face, Leliana said, “She merely needs rest. She and I have fought much worse battles.”

“Relieved to hear it.” He sat down in the chair beside hers, still looking at Cassandra and saying absently, “My brother entrusted his children to me. I did my best, but I was … unsuited to it.” Then he turned to her. “This blood magic filth in my Necropolis, my Order. It shames me. All of us. What can I do to atone, my lady Victoria?”

He was handing her leverage that it would be silly to turn down. Leliana leaned forward and folded her hands. “The Chantry also has a stake in keeping this … incident … quiet. No one wants another crisis.” He nodded, and she continued, “We might ask to share certain information, in the interest of catching the traitors and building a closer relationship, with you, and with Nevarra.”

“If you wish,” he said, the lines in his forehead deepening. “The Order has its sworn secrets, but what is not forbidden—”

“And, from time to time, you might speak to other friends of ours, or visit Val Royeaux yourself. As a good Andrastian.”

“I might,” he said.

“Very good, my son,” she said, ignoring the incongruity. She held out the hand with the ring on it, and Vestalus kissed it, still looking uncomfortable. Well, she wouldn’t tax him too hard for information, but an agent in reserve was better than none. “I’m told there is excellent hawking on the Chantry lands,” she added with a smile.

“Thank you, Most Holy. I will return to the palace,” he said, rising from the chair. “We have a great deal of work on our hands, now. Questioning, repairs, restoration of the crypts … I’ll have your things brought here for the night.”

She nodded. “Tomorrow, we can both tell you more about after we fell.”

“We may need to know, yes.” He bowed and stepped back to the door. “Good night.”

 

* * *

 

The Val Royeaux packet was a jumbled cacophony of requests for them to reconsider and come back, logistics arrangements for the rest of the trip, notes on projects to be approved, draft decrees to be signed, and petitions selected by the council.

As Leliana was sorting through them and picking out the actually important ones, the door opened again and Elaine brought in food: fruit and little sandwiches that some kitchen sister had arranged prettily, smelling delicious. She continued turning pages with her other hand while she ate, taking tiny bites so as not to reopen her wound. Then she borrowed the grand cleric’s pen and ink to make a few marginal notes.

Before she knew it, only crumbs and peelings were left on the plates, the fire was guttering, and she was dozing off between lines and smudging her writing. The rest could wait for the judgment of a fully awake Divine. Or two. Cassandra could do her own share.

She set the pen down, stretched in the chair, and glanced over at her. Still asleep, but at some point she’d rolled to face Leliana, one hand on the side of the grand cleric’s bed, close enough to reach out and touch; callused and scratched and unconsciously graceful. The wanting was like a slow cut, every time.

It took her back to the other thing she didn’t want to remember, the way that guilty quixotic desire had crept in through her desperation as she felt Cassandra pour everything into holding and saving her.

When the blood magic finally broke and let her stop, it was a miracle—maybe literally; she didn’t fully understand how Seekers did what they did, and Cassandra had never been able to explain—and she’d forgotten herself again and caressed her face like a fool who hadn’t just nearly murdered her, and Cassandra had smiled the tiniest bit in her exhaustion, and then Leliana had gone and killed four men instead.

She rubbed her eyes and sighed. She didn’t have to stay awake, really. Elaine was watching outside, and the walls were built to withstand a darkspawn horde. She tucked her legs up and leaned her head on the wing of the chair.

 

* * *

 

The Fade was dark, with an uncertain sensation of endlessly rising monoliths around her, but when she reached out there was nothing. She wandered with no sense of direction through this phantom forest as if caught in a loop.

In the dark she began to sing, and her voice came back to her multiplied, a call and response from an invisible flock. It was pleasant at first, but then grew louder, closing in on her, syllables beating at her ears.

Her arms stretched and cracked into wings. She flew away, up, trying to escape the song she was still singing. The darkness became red, and thorns caught at her clothes that were also feathers, pulling her in all directions.

Someone said her name faintly through the din, and the forest melted into more red and gold and one persistent thorn in her sleeve. Then she realized her face was against the upholstery of the grand cleric’s chair and Cassandra was shaking her by the arm.

“Ugh,” she said. “All right. Stop.” She opened her eyes and felt a dull ache in her cheek.

“I waited quite a long time. You can’t sleep the day away in that chair.”

Leliana sat up, raking hair out of her face. “What time is it?”

“Midmorning. Someone brought breakfast. It may be cold now.” She gestured at the table.

“You’re back to normal, I see.”

“As much as can be expected.” She sat down in the other chair, frowning with a hand to her ribs, and pushed a tray of covered dishes toward Leliana. “There, the chocolate is still hot.”

It was; a small indulgence she didn’t expect here, somehow, but rich and very good, and the first cup brought her most of the way back to the land of the awake and civilized.

After that, she went to find the chantry’s common bathhouse, startled a group of young initiates who fled when she entered, and returned free of grime and blood to find Cassandra poring over the letters from Val Royeaux.

“Now they want us to turn back.”

“Yes, a few were very insistent.” Leliana reclaimed the red chair and leaned over to see what she was reading.

“It’s foolish. If these attacks continue, they will continue wherever we are.” Cassandra turned a page. “This ridiculous fawning from Victoire. Don’t tell me she suddenly cares.”

“Exactly.” She picked up a bread roll from the tray and buttered it. “Staying behind Cathedral walls does nothing to build the good faith we desperately need.”

“And makes us fish in a barrel. So we go on.”

“To Kirkwall? I have a thought about that.”

 

* * *

 

Slip out of Nevarra fast and quietly by boat, sail downriver, then ride straight south to the City of Chains: that was the plan she’d agreed to.

The grand cleric’s purser had bargained with a Merchants’ Guild trader for passage to Tantervale, buying out all of the cabin space and making it clear to the captain that his officially unnamed passengers were his first priority. The _Paragon’s Maid_ was the best-kept riverboat on the Minanter docks at the time, she assured them, though the selection was small, with trade still recovering from the war. These dwarves had no interest in the Chantry beyond their coin, and agents would lay false trails in other directions to draw off pursuit.

It all sounded sensible right up until Cassandra was following Leliana down the gangplank, listening to her pull needless cover stories out of the air for her own amusement and glumly recalling certain Left Hand excursions she’d been dragged along for.

“So, where are you from, then? Oh, don’t suppose I can ask,” the captain was saying as he stroked his luxuriant beard. “The sister with the bag of money was very firm on no names, at least.”

Leliana slipped her Divine’s ring off behind her back. “Let’s just say we’ve been fighting in Orlais for some time,” she said. “And for a name, Linnet will do.” She tilted her head. “That’s … Peregrine.”

Wholly unnecessary. She took hers off, anyway.

“And I’m a duck’s arse,” he said, guffawing. “Or Captain Wendel, at your service.” He pointed to the forecastle. “But, my lady, the _Maid_ is yours. She’s all dwarven-crafted, sturdy, and faster than most things her size on this river. Cabins are there; arrange yourselves as you see fit. The rest of your crew can bunk with mine. I’m a bit shorthanded, if they can pull an oar.”

A laugh that sounded genuinely impressed at his skepticism, then “Thank you, Captain," and she shook his hand, and he turned back to supervise the cargo loading.

Cassandra lengthened her steps to catch up. “We did not need _code names_ ,” she said under her breath as they headed for the hatchway to the cabins. “And I am not a spoiled falcon.”

“Birds, they just come to mind first,” Leliana said, waving a hand absently. Then her voice shaded into laughter again. “But have you ever looked at one closely?”

“It bit me.”

“I rest my case.” She climbed down the ladder.

Cassandra had no counter to that.

Her body still felt battered all over, and her ribs twinged when she moved the wrong way. Leliana’s flippancy irritated her today more than it deserved. The grand cleric had invited them to stay longer, but she wanted to be away from the city and everything in it.

She claimed the third cabin, on the far side, and when the door latched behind her, took a deep breath that made her entire torso ache and let it out slowly.

Ferdinand Pentaghast had made a great show of swearing on behalf of the king to root out the traitors, calling it a strike at Nevarra’s heart. Her uncle had given her an awkward pat on the shoulder and a similar promise. She’d misjudged him; he did care, in his own way, and she couldn’t fault him for his singleminded focus when it was obviously a family trait.

If the traitors could be found, these two men had a good chance of finding them. The matter of the Mortalitasi was in their hands for now. The other—

She sat on the bunk and closed her eyes a moment, thinking about the other matter.

It was almost like the touch on her forehead after her vigil. A fracturing of self-imposed Tranquility, a disorderly return of feeling she hardly recognized.

She’d awoken in the grand cleric’s bed and seen Leliana curled in the chair across from her, hair falling in her face and papers spread out everywhere. She was usually up before anyone, if she slept at all, or took care to give that impression—Sister Nightingale saw everything, did not rest, did not tire. Seeing it disproved, she’d felt a kind of … tenderness that went outside proper boundaries.

She was never one for swooning. Her life was not compatible with it. Galyan had crept up on her through unusual circumstances. And for all the years since Justinia’s accession it seemed there’d been no time for anything but her great work and its failure, war, death, tears in the sky. If it was hiding there all along, she was too unobservant.

Now, they had all the rest of the great work left to do, but this thing had climbed into her consciousness and possessed her to lie there like a mooncalf watching Leliana’s eyelashes and the rise and fall of her breath until that sister knocked on the door with her tray and had to be told off.

And then to turn away everyone else who came to see the Divines that morning, and not wake her until she began to toss in the chair and mutter and cry out with some bad dream.

The boat lurched, and she braced a hand on the nearby wall—the space was tiny even by nautical standards—as the oarsmen pulled them away from the dock in rhythmic jerks. She’d wanted to meditate through the afternoon and avoid dwelling on any of it at all, but that was unlikely to succeed here.

 

* * *

 

There was nothing on this boat to hit. She’d seen all of it multiple times after an hour of pacing the decks, which was not nearly as helpful.

The city and its ghosts had distracted her from the Chantry’s broader concerns as well. The proposal for the new Circles, or whatever name they would take, had to be set before the mages and the clerics and hammered out further. If the Seekers were to be involved, it would fall to her to gather the remnants of the Order and begin its resurrection.

Cassandra stepped over a neat coil of rope—the boat was well kept, the sister was right about that—and leaned out to watch the oars still cutting water below.

Skyhold might serve as neutral ground for a first engagement between the two sides. Assuming they could be brought to any sort of agreement; many on the Chantry side would be fervently against the idea of negotiating. Leliana had suggested Cassandra use her impeccable reputation to help convince them, which she was not sure was a joke.

She realized she was gripping the rail too tight. That templar Elaine had good form; maybe she would agree to spar. Half strength, to save her ribs.

The sun moved across the sky slowly, and the crew left her alone. Before it dipped below the horizon, Captain Wendel ordered them to tie up near the bank. The Minanter was treacherous at night, and only desperate or foolhardy captains attempted to navigate it in the dark, he said.

A fire was lit on shore, ale rations were distributed, and the cook, who was also the second mate, prepared roast nug and apples, to the delight of the largely dwarven crew. There was plenty for crew and passengers both, and they crowded around and devoured it hot from the spit.

Cassandra secured hers, went to sit on a log outside the immediate circle, ate carefully. Her throat was still protesting along with the rest of her, and it went slowly.

Leliana was perched on a rock beside the fire, eating just the apples and telling stories to a audience of crew members: veiled accounts of Inquisition battles, recast with these bird-named mercenaries she’d invented, in a style that would fit a Tethras serial. The templars listened too, and even applauded, once the ale had gone around.

After that, she actually got them to sing with her, Marcher folk tunes and sailor songs that danced on the edge of impropriety, leaning in toward the fire and laughing; far from Andraste’s earthly representative tonight.

On the other hand, Andraste had led an army, and She might have enjoyed a good Alamarri soldiering tune.

Breaking her mildly sacrilegious train of thought, Leliana glanced over at her through the firelight, and Cassandra was unwillingly seized by the image of her in that Val Royeaux bedchamber engaged in something most clerics agreed Andraste had never done. She breathed in hard and the flash of pain down her side banished it sufficiently.

She was not going to feed this further. The future of the Chantry and Andrastian Thedas was in their hands, and that responsibility came before everything. Being here had tangled her up in her Maker-cursed family history, pulled her away from His will and into herself, and this foolishness was the result.

She stood in a swift decision and stepped back from the fire, then followed the riverbank upstream until the song was too faint to understand and the moonlight reflections were the brightest things she saw.

The meditation she’d intended this afternoon would do just as well now. _O Maker, hear my cry_ , she began, silencing irrelevant thoughts.

 

* * *

 

The morning of the second day on the river, Leliana stood at the top rail to watch the sunrise. The crew were already working, some less enthusiastic than others after their late night.

Below her, the templars were gathered around a cleared area, taking turns at their dawn training routine. It would stand out to anyone familiar with the Order, but in that case they were known before they set foot on the boat.

As she watched them, Cassandra emerged on the lower deck, tapped the knight-captain on the shoulder, and said something. Elaine shook her head a few times, then apparently gave in with a quick reverence. The others backed up to let them square off.

If she wanted to tear herself up further, that was her business. Leliana would not look. Instead she drifted around the other side of the deck, staring out at the forests and meadows slipping by, and surreptitiously following the crew’s talk.

Nothing about strange events back in the city. Sailors would chatter about anything unusual; the Mortalitasi’s powers of secrecy must extend quite far to keep word from spreading. There were a few interestingly jumbled rumors about two-faced demons in the Grand Cathedral, and a fourth-hand account of rogue mages or dragons burning farms in the hills, as well as considerable skepticism about her tales last night, of which she was rather proud.

She did notice when Elaine cried off, after what seemed like an excessive length of time, and drenched herself in a bucket of water before going to shine her armor.

A while later Cassandra came up from her cabin in fresh clothes, not hobbling today, looking rather smug.

“Feeling better?” Leliana said.

“The knight-captain did me a favor. She’s quite good.” Her mouth quirked. “For a templar. I had started to think they would speak in monosyllables and avoid eye contact all the way back to Val Royeaux.”

“They actually sang last night. I was so charmed.” Leliana leaned back against the rail and glanced around. No one in earshot. “I’ve been thinking more about what happened in the Necropolis.”

Cassandra's eyes flicked up, gold with … alarm? Or just irritation. Of course she didn’t want to talk about it; her family was a literal horror show, for the Maker’s sake. Leliana went on quickly. “The attack, I mean. It’s an entirely different modus operandi. Certainly not the Carta.”

“… Yes.” She went to lean beside Leliana, looking the other way to cover their surroundings. “And that was a spell I have not seen before. You’re not feeling the urge to become an abomination now, I trust.”

_Not that_. Leliana laughed. “As far as I can tell, no.”

“Perhaps not being a mage saved you.”

“Oh, too humble to take credit?”

She saw another ghost of a smile before Cassandra steepled her hands against her lips and shook her head. “Regardless. Venatori infiltrators would make sense, from those letters.”

“The decoded texts should be with us by Kirkwall, if my old agents are as fast as I taught them.” Leliana shifted, folding her arms. “But this means there are at least two factions willing to remove us by force already.”

“If it is the Venatori, they have been all along.”

“I didn’t think we’d see Calpernia return. Her desire for revenge on the magisters seemed so genuine.” Leliana sighed. “And I’m no closer on the other. For all I know, some sister or lover or child of a target I … removed for Justinia finally decided to try for their own revenge. Or go in on it together. It’s not a short list.” Faces rose up out of the back of her mind where they all lived. She kept her tone light, skimming above it. “Maybe they took up a collection for it. A righteous cause.”

“Sheer paranoia,” Cassandra said bluntly. “There must be some cleric or noble with more power than sense behind it. There always is.”

Leliana laughed again, partly at herself, a little bitter. “That doesn’t leave them all out.” The healing cut on her cheek itched, and she rubbed it. “But you’re right. And if they don’t like what we’re doing now, we may as well give them more reason. These initial talks with the mages, for instance.”

The morning and then the afternoon slipped away in debating the precise ins and outs of the negotiation planning, how to approach both sides, whether Josephine would host them at Skyhold—Leliana thought she could be convinced with enough sweet-talking and maybe some suitably extravagant shoes—and other such details.

 

* * *

 

As twilight neared, they were approaching the tidy docks of a seemingly well-to-do little town. Captain Wendel ordered the crew to bring the _Maid_ in.

“Halloo, the harbormaster!” he shouted, but no one came out to meet them, and there were no lights visible in the houses.

A few sailors jumped out to secure lines to moorings and then pulled up a gangplank for the captain. He descended and gestured for his men to follow as he crossed the dock toward the harbormaster’s quarters.

Leliana leaned out to watch. The building’s door opened on his first try, swinging loose, and Wendel put his head in, then gave a loud curse in the dwarven tongue and pulled away quickly. He hurried back to the boat, breathing hard, frightened sailors around him. “By the Stone,” he announced, “we can’t stop here. Cast off!”

She held up a hand. “One moment, Captain. What did you see?”

“Blood!” he said. “Everywhere. Some kind of massacre. Don’t care to find out more.”

Leliana glanced at Cassandra, who took a few steps forward. “Someone may need help. Captain, you’ll wait for us,” she said in a tone that didn’t brook refusal.

He nodded and backed away. “Belay that order,” he said to the men at the lines as Cassandra went to pick up sword and shield from the deck below. Leliana roused the templars from the hold and slung a spare bow and quiver over her shoulder.

On the dock, boards creaked under their feet. A wind rose, and the door the captain had left half open swung back.

The harbormaster’s small office was a charnel scene of blood splatter and chaos, papers fouled and thrown about, filled with the stink of recent death, but no bodies anywhere.

Along the town’s main street, several houses and shops had been burnt, and they found more blood in pools and trails from one to the next. The streets were silent, save for the occasional cries of ravens gathering on the eaves.

The chantry was at the town center, unburnt, although its sun symbol had been hacked down and its outside murals defaced with filth. Cassandra gestured for the templars to fan out and check the intact buildings nearby while they entered.

Inside had been another carnage. The statue of Andraste lay facedown in dried blood that spread across the floor, and it smelled like a butcher’s yard. Leliana whispered a prayer of intercession as she picked her way through it.

In the revered mother’s study, the stained-glass window had been shattered, and shelves of books torn and mangled. The heavy rug on the floor was stained with ashes and more blood, but there was no further sign of its source, or of the perpetrators. A raven fluttered down through the window to light on the revered mother’s chair, and tilted its head to aim a beady eye at her, then squawked.

Leliana turned to leave the room, but on her way out, she thought she heard something else: a rustling or shifting from beneath the floor. She stopped to listen, and it came again.

“Cassandra,” she said. “Over here.”

They moved the chair and rolled back the rug to reveal a long, narrow trapdoor set into the floorboards.

Cassandra stepped back, raising her shield, while Leliana heaved it up. In the moment it took for her eyes to adjust to the darkness beneath, she heard a small voice. “Hello?” And another: “Can we come out?”

There were children, six of them, and two women, huddled in the back of this storage cellar, for who knew how long, as unknown horrors went on over their heads.

The women came out first, blinking and cowering. “Maker be praised,” said the older woman in a quavering voice; she wore the robes of a sister, and the children hid behind her skirts. The other was much younger, barely of age, and wealthy by her clothes, but seemed too terrified to speak.

Cassandra glanced back into the sanctuary, then walked to the tall window and smashed the remaining shards of glass. “This way,” she said. “Don’t look.”

One at a time, they climbed cautiously out the window and landed in the dusty chantry courtyard. Once they were all out, Leliana stepped onto the sill and jumped, and Cassandra followed last, wincing as her boots hit the ground.

“In the Maker’s name, you’re safe now.” Leliana took the sister’s hand. “Can you tell us what happened?”

The younger girl, holding a toddler in her arms, looked back and forth from her to Cassandra. Her eyes widened, and then she set the child down and knelt in the dirt before them. “Most Holy,” she gasped. “I saw you in the city. Praise Andraste.”

“Stand up,” Cassandra said with exasperation as the old sister gaped and fell to her own knees. “…Daughter. We need your help. Tell us what you know.”

She’d only been avoiding names to confuse their trail out of Nevarra, setting aside the amusement value for her. Anyone on the boat could have guessed it, but this still might be inconvenient. Leliana knelt down to look both of them in the eye. “On your feet. These children still need you. Where are their parents?”

They climbed back to their feet awkwardly, dusting their skirts and ducking their heads. “I don’t know, Most Holy,” the sister said. “We were there so long. No one came. Until you. Bless the Maker for you.” The girl nodded.

The templars were returning from their own search, empty-handed, and they gathered around. “Take a child, each of you,” Leliana said, pointing to four of them. “The rest of you, keep searching the buildings. Look for cellars, attics, hiding places.”

Cassandra stayed behind to direct the searchers while Leliana walked with the survivors. They carried the smaller ones, who didn’t even cry, still in shock, and guided the others back through the streets to the riverside, where Captain Wendel thankfully had not cast off.

“Eight more passengers, Captain,” Leliana said as they helped the children up the plank to the deck of the _Maid_. “The Chantry purse will cover it.”

“If these kids survived that, my lady, they’re welcome to the passage.”

Once they were all on deck, Leliana took the girl aside and sat her down on a barrel. Her eyes were dark brown, large in her round brown face, and teary. “What’s your name?”

“Mari Van Markham, Most Holy. My father is the lord here.” More tears ran down her cheeks. “I don’t know where he is now. Or my mother.”

She hadn’t heard the girl’s name before; a minor house, then, somewhere at the bottom of that centuries-old tangle of Pentaghasts and Van Markhams. “What did you see?”

Mari sniffled. “I didn’t see anything. The revered mother told us to hide, and closed the trapdoor, and then there were sounds …” She buried her face in her hands. “I’m sorry.”

“Divine Valeria is seeking them. If anyone can find them, she will,” Leliana said. “And if she doesn’t, we’ll find a safe place for you.” She put a finger under Mari’s chin. “And, daughter, we’re trying to travel in secret.”

“Yes, M—my lady,” she said breathlessly. Leliana dabbed at the tears with her scarf, then handed it to the girl.

“Good. Here, and rest now.”

 

* * *

 

It was dark when Cassandra came back, leading a bobbing chain of torchlight, followed by the templars and three more survivors.

“We searched every building. This couple were hiding in an attic and the boy in a hayloft, but there was no one else.”

“No sign of what did it?”

“No. I copied these markings we found on a few walls, though they may not mean anything.” She dug in a pocket and handed Leliana a scavenged shopkeeper’s bill with several drawings on the back. “Plenty of blood, but no bodies at all. It’s as if they were used up, or eaten.”

“If you want some more bad news,” Captain Wendel said, stepping up next to them, “it’s too dark to cast off now. Afraid we’re spending the night here.”

A wind blew in off the river, making the torches waver and the trees rustle ominously, as if to add weight to his statement.

They made beds for the children in the three cabins and the adult survivors with the crew. Cassandra and Leliana moved their own blankets to the deck outside to keep watch, and assigned the templars to hold a defensive perimeter along the dock.

“Have your people stay below, Captain,” Cassandra said, standing at the rail with a torch. “We will fight it, if this monster returns.”

She looked … pleased was the wrong word. More herself, perhaps, than Leliana had seen her since they left Skyhold. This was her territory, monster-hunting and damsel-rescuing and so on.

Leliana rested the longbow she’d borrowed on the rail, examined the string and tested the pull, then set the quiver beside her for easy reach.

After setting the torch in a bracket, Cassandra sat down against the cabin wall next to her.

“Do you think it is some sort of monster?” Leliana asked.

“In one sense, it can’t be anything else.” She laid her sword across her lap and took out a polishing rag. “But it could be blood mages or cultists.”

Leliana took out the paper and unfolded it in the light. The symbols were sketched and labeled in the neat writing Cassandra used in field reports. _Blood on stable wall across length of stall. Blood on fence, approx 3 feet long, width of a hand. Blood and burn marks on chantry mural wall, from ground to head height._

She turned the paper and held it out to look at the drawings from different angles. They were haphazard lines and shapes, not any script she recognized, but the style caught at her mind in some way.

“Do you recognize them?”

“I’m not sure. There is something about them.” She squinted and turned it again. “No, I’ve lost it.”

“I know what you mean.” Cassandra rubbed at a stubborn mark on the steel. “That last one is unnerving in a way I have felt before, but when?"

 

* * *

 

It was a long night spent on edge. They talked desultorily and kept their eyes on the shore. Every odd creak or falling branch could have been a threat, but none materialized.

At sunrise, the captain, who hadn’t slept either, was more than ready to leave. None of the villagers wanted to stay behind either, especially with the assurance that the grand cleric in Tantervale would help them get to family elsewhere or find new lodging.

It was three more days to Tantervale. The templars and crew were all willing to play with the young children, who became more animated and lost some of their drawn and frightened look, and their care was shared out over the whole company. They stayed in the cabins, and Cassandra and Leliana slept outside, alternatingly, when they needed to.

The Van Markham girl cast them worshipful gazes when they passed but kept quiet, and so did the chantry sister, who seemed to have adopted her as her personal charge.

Leliana gently questioned each of the survivors over the following days. The boy who hid in the hayloft thought he’d glimpsed the perpetrators and they were human or elven, in a group, but he couldn’t say how many. None of them had seen bodies or understood the blood markings.

The captain’s cheerful air of the first day had faded, and by the time they were approaching the border of the Free Marches proper, Leliana could tell he was ready to see the backs of his special passengers. She didn’t blame him, and made a note to ensure he got something extra for his pains. _Maker, let Tantervale be quiet._

 


	7. Tantervale

On the afternoon of the fifth day, a good wind off the plains brought them quickly into Tantervale with minimal rowing.

The city-state, surrounded by the fertile farmland and orchards of the river country, went about its business peacefully, having escaped most ravages of the war since the dissolution and flight of its Circle of Magi. Tantervale had taken in many refugees from the other Marcher cities, and so far was managing its new population well. Its docks were busier than Nevarra’s, with barges loading and unloading grain and foodstuffs, and traders bargaining for them right on the boardwalks.

The captain saw them off. “We’re heading on to Starkhaven tomorrow, my ladies of mystery, if you happen to change your minds.” His gallantry was a little forced, and Cassandra guessed he was as ready to have them off his boat as she was to be off of it. Still, she shook his hand and thanked him while Leliana shepherded the villagers out of the hold and down the plank.

After they threaded their way across the crowded dock district, at the entrance to the city proper they found a detachment of foot from the former Tantervale Circle, led by a man in the Lord Chancellor’s livery. He seemed taken aback to find two travel-stained and armed women and a handful of tattered peasants instead of the robed and crowned formal delegation he might have expected.

He glanced from them to the knight-captain and their guard at the rear, then back, clearly looking for identifying marks. “Er, Most Holy?”—he kept his voice quiet as he bowed hesitantly to Cassandra and then Leliana, who nodded with an amused look—”welcome to our city.”

A group of the Tantervale templars were actually carrying a litter, she saw now, which they set down in front of her with sheepish faces.

Cassandra had never ridden in a litter and had no intention of starting now. She turned to the villagers behind her. “Would any of you like to ride?” The adults mostly looked too stunned to answer, but the little children’s faces lit up.

All six of them were lifted in, and stared out at the city with wide eyes as they wobbled along with the carriers’ stride. Leliana followed on one side, and Cassandra took the opposite.

“I see our correspondence could have been clearer,” Leliana said to the liveried man. His expression went from apprehensive to grateful when she added, “But no matter now. We will see the Lord Chancellor after we take these people to your chantry.”

 

* * *

 

Tantervale’s chantry was small compared to the Nevarran grand chantries, but as busy as the docks, and the grand cleric, Florentia, was in residence. She had been serving for decades, and Cassandra had never had much patience for her, but to her credit, when she heard the story of the village she summoned the knight-commander and captain of the city guard at once.

“This is the third such incident in the outlands near us in a fortnight, Most Holy,” said the guard-captain after they described what they’d seen. “But the first in a human settlement, and the first with survivors.”

“Oh, Your Perfection, how lucky they are that you were there,” said the grand cleric, holding her hands in an attitude of prayer and casting her eyes skyward. “The Maker must have given you a holy sign. Oh, all glory be upon Him.”

“A room full of blood is a rather definitive one, as signs go,” Leliana said, deadpan.

Cassandra refused to smile and looked away from the grand cleric. Behind her was a painting of the Golden City from one of the more sentimentally ornate periods of Orlesian art, populated by frolicking spirit cherubs that smirked out at her. The rest of the study was filled with more in the same style. It made her want to throw the artist into a Fade rift to show her the real thing.

“I would like to question these survivors,” said the knight-commander. “Perhaps they should also be confined, to contain the risk of demon influence.”

At this, Cassandra cut in, “Divine Victoria has already questioned them, and they know very little. I found no magic in them. They are innocent.”

“I will give you the information we have, Commander,” Leliana said coolly. “Don’t trouble yourself with these people further.”

He bowed. “Very good, Most Holy.”

“But do send a party to search the area,” she went on. “The families …”

“Already on it,” said the guard-captain, ducking her gray head.

“Excellent.” Leliana turned back to the grand cleric. “You have war orphans housed here, I understand? May we see the arrangements?”

“Of course, Your Perfection.” Florentia bent down to a drawer and brought out a roll of papers. “Before we go, I have messages for Your Holinesses, delivered quite recently, from Val Royeaux and several points east.”

Leliana took the roll from her and held it without opening it, which seemed to disappoint her.

“We promised the survivors a place here,” said Cassandra, wanting to move things along.

“Of course, of course, Most Holy. We are fortunate to have more than enough space, with the orphans or with our lay sisters. If they hear Blessed Andraste’s calling and choose to join us and serve, all the better.”

“Yes,” Leliana said, her expression softening a moment. “I hope they will stay if not, but we will try to have their families found.”

The grand cleric bustled around her desk and led them out of the study. The captain and commander took it as their cue to depart, with more bows and muttered honorifics.

They followed her down a long hallway lit on either side with high narrow windows in red and gold, to a sunny room lined with rows of bunks and chests where the orphans played under the supervision of a rotation of sisters. It looked peaceful, secure, and like the opposite of the butchery in the village, which was all to the good. Florentia beamed as she described everything, with many digressions to thank the Maker, and the children perked up a little when they were shown in. Leliana knelt down and said, “Be good for the sisters, and I will come back and tell you a story if I can.”

Her bedtime stories had been in great demand on the boat. From her place on the deck Cassandra had listened to her patient voice drifting up from the cabin, until the last pair of eyes closed, and often again when they awoke with bad dreams, until she was hoarse. Then she would return to sit and stare out at the water and not say anything, leaving Cassandra with a wish to do something for her in turn and the frustration of not knowing what. She was grateful the last part of the voyage had been short.

The other survivors were escorted away by lay sisters and brothers to wash and find clean clothes, and went willingly, even the Van Markham girl. “Well. That is done,” she said to Leliana as they walked back through the halls.

“Yes. I’ll have someone watching them to be sure, but it seems suitable.” Leliana’s smile was wry. “We may have become spiritual mothers to the Chantry, but after the last few days, I don’t know how the real ones do it.”

“The college of clerics is childish enough, despite their collective age,” Cassandra said. “And now we have this Lord Chancellor.”

“He will be either trivial to manage or a nightmare, I think,” Leliana said.

 

* * *

The new Lord Chancellor of Tantervale had inherited the position at fifteen after his mother was killed in the rebellion of the Circle, one of the city’s few casualties. Backed by a cadre of advisers he’d also inherited, the boy greeted them with only a little trepidation. Then his seneschal showed them to a suite of rooms overlooking the gardens, where they were invited to dine with the court that evening.

The suite had an anteroom with a richly carved round table and chairs. Once the man bowed his way out, Cassandra sank into one and sighed. The confinement of the river journey, the remnants of her injuries, and the number of unresolved questions in her head were making her snappish.

“I wish I could send a Seeker to deal with these empty villages. City guards and templars lack the training for investigation. It is a risk.”

“I know.” Leliana crossed to stand next to her. “How much longer until we could?”

“Finding the Tranquil who lived has been slow work.” She grimaced. “The handful of us left are spread very thin. And the making of new Seekers will take years.”

“Releasing the Tranquil is our proof of good faith with the mages,” Leliana said, then added, “And the right thing, of course. At least the Inquisition has finished tearing down the Venatori’s oculara and giving them proper pyres.”

“Yes. Foul things.” Cassandra leaned on the table. “There were so many of us away and unaccounted for when the Lord Seeker . . .” She rested her head in one hand. “It is increasingly unlikely with time, but I hope to find them still.”

“You know my agents are at your disposal, Cassandra.” Leliana’s fingertips brushed her free hand before she walked to the other side of the table and cut the seal on the roll of messages. “Speaking of which, any wager as to what they have for us today?”

Cassandra closed her hand under the table to dispel the sensation. “I cannot wait to know.”

She flipped through them quickly and pulled one out. “Wait, the Inquisitor’s seal.” Cassandra watched her eyes move quickly over the words as she decoded them. “Interesting. Her old friends in House Cadash say that there was a contract on us, but the major Carta families—including theirs, we are assured—turned it down for less chancy, more profitable work.”

“Then who took it?”

“They blame it on some minor desperate gang, but I see they didn’t specify. I’ll pass this to my people in Orzammar.”

Cassandra reached for the unrolled papers and pulled part of the sheaf toward her with a snort. “Amateurs with dreams of glory, then. Perhaps we should stay off Merchants’ Guild transport from now on.”

“The _Paragon’s Maid_ was clean,” Leliana said mildly, still reading. “No ties.”

The first two messages Cassandra held were in the cipher Leliana used with her network, and she slid them back across the table.

Under them, on larger, creamy paper encrusted in gold ink, was a personal invitation to Empress Celene’s annual Satinalia revel at Halamshiral. “Shall we accept?” She raised it.

“Certainly.” Leliana took it from her and scanned it. “The Divine always attends and pretends to be above the fun, no? I remember …”

The letter beneath it was in the cipher again, but the spidery, blotting hand was much too familiar. Cassandra interrupted, “Leliana, what is this?”

She looked up, eyes a calm sky. “What?”

“This is my uncle’s writing.”

“Yes,” she said. “I imagine it’s about the—”

“You recruited him as an agent?” Cassandra stood up. “And never thought to mention it?”

Leliana set down the invitation. “I was handling quite a few other things at the time.”

“This endangers him,” Cassandra said, setting both hands on the table. “You cannot take it on yourself to decide everything. All these secrets and play-acting—”

“What does it matter? We need word from Nevarra. I thought you hated the man.”

“That is not the point.”

Leliana’s voice grew icy. “Do I need your approval for every decision, then? What tea I had with breakfast? What smallclothes I put on? Whether to send Charter or Swift to check the drops? How to properly . . .”

“If you are wearing my uncle’s smallclothes, it concerns me,” Cassandra said, angry now, “and if you get him killed playing your game, it will concern me, and we cannot keep so much from each other now, Leliana—” She bit off the words, realizing the direction she was heading in, and instead pushed away and walked out.

Behind her she heard Leliana drop into a chair and let out a quiet breath before the door banged shut.

 

* * *

 

The dinner in the gardens was strained. Cassandra spent much of it walking in the chancellor’s arbors and greenhouses on her own. When the food was served, she forced herself into a somewhat interesting conversation with the Champion of Tantervale about sword tactics, and then left early, still feeling stirred up and out of humor on top of the travel-weariness.

They had been sleeping, eating, working, and traveling almost on top of one another and other people for so many days that it was unsurprising. Normally she did not care, but tonight a quiet room to herself with a locking door and stone walls felt like a blessing from the Maker.

When she returned to the rooms alone, on her bed lay a page of decrypted text in Leliana’s flowing writing:

_Most Holy Victoria, Your Perfection, etc., I recommend myself to you and sincerely hope that this finds both Your Holinesses in good health, by the Maker’s grace._

_Eight former members of the Mortalitasi Order have been confirmed as traitors, likely influenced by the Venatori spy to whose presence you graciously alerted my king last year. Considerable proof of treason and apostate blood magic was found among their belongings and in private chambers within the Necropolis. Descriptions and copies of these materials can be sent by my scribes, if you wish._

_The four surviving were tracked eastward toward the Imperial Highway and took with them a number of significant items belonging to the Order. Should they be captured, the Order would have a strong interest in imposing justice and recovering our property. My lord Ferdinand continues to follow the trail and assures me he will hunt them “like a drake in a hole.”_

_I remain, with all respect, your humble servant, etc. etc., Vestalus Pentaghast_

And below that,

_I’ll ask nothing more of him without leave. L._

This should have satisfied her; it was what she’d wanted; and yet the elegant, careful concession left her more out of sorts than before, and she tossed and turned and did not sleep.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, the young chancellor got over his intimidation and declared that he (or his advisers) had concerns to discuss, which led to a series of long sessions with his council, reviewing land purchase, management, and tenancy agreements between Justinia and his mother and painstakingly reaffirming them. A week of this gradually forced the quarrel with Leliana into the back of her mind, behind a host of clauses and dispensations and Free Marcher house names.

When the minister of the treasury reached the last contract and they finally escaped the council chamber, it was a glorious early Solace afternoon. Cassandra stood on the wide balcony over the gardens, stretched, and enjoyed the relative ease of it. There were no mages left in Tantervale—or at least none willing to walk into the chancellor’s great hall and do magic for Divine Valeria, no matter what was rumored about Circle reforms—so she’d been left with herbs and rest, but the bone was knitting well, according to the grand cleric's healers.

Leliana came out into the light and took a deep breath and smiled. Only a faint line was left where the undead had cut her. "A quiet week. Have we shaken our assassins, do you think?"

"I would investigate this treasury minister. Does he want to kill us by slow torture?"

Leliana chuckled. "The extent of our holdings here was a surprise, I will say." She yawned. "And also something of a nightmare, though the word is more exciting than it deserves. And now it's a beautiful day, and I want to do anything other than sit around a table. Walk out in the city with me. Even if you’re still upset with me, you did offer."

"Very well," Cassandra said. The argument could lie where it lay. "But now I would take the guard, too."

"Then I hope the knight-captain likes shoe shopping,” Leliana said. “I need a gift for Josie.”

 

* * *

 

Tantervale’s market district was less opulent than Val Royeaux’s, but very respectably sized. Their guards attracted some looks and whispers, but in plain clothes no one seemed to be able to pin down their identity, and they were left to themselves.

“The broadsheets from the coronation must not have made it this far east,” Leliana said as she looked into the display window of a couturière’s shop. “Oh, look! These are exquisite.”

“Yet,” Cassandra said. “There will be awful paintings in peddler stalls across Thedas soon enough, and then we’ll be caught.” She went to the window. They were blue slippers, trimmed with gold in a spare design, more appealing than the usual Orlesian frippery.

“And then I can add to my collection,” Leliana said. “I don’t have a single one of myself yet.” She had been insistently frivolous since they left the palace, refusing to discuss work and admiring every pretty thing they passed. “What do you think of these, Elaine?”

The knight-captain took a step toward the window and craned her neck. “Beautiful, my lady,” she said.

“The dresses are very nice, too.” She glanced up and down the street, then peered inside. “I’ll just be a moment.”

Cassandra didn’t follow, but watched her go in. She touched the fabrics, and then the proprietress draped something pale and shining over her shoulder, brushing her hair aside, and she laughed, muted by the glass.

The shop on the other side of the street had a sign that read, “Scriptorium & Books, Purveyors to the Chancellor.” With a nod to Elaine, Cassandra left the window and crossed to it. Three templars broke off and followed her at a tolerable distance.

The book merchant had a surprisingly varied stock. “Picked them up for a song down in Ferelden. All those mage towers full of libraries just walking away, don’t you know,” he said. Cassandra decided not to comment. Still, there were copies of more than a few novels she’d never read, the sun slanted through the dusty windows in a drowsy comfortable way, and she fell into perusing them.

She had accumulated a small stack to buy for the road when her eye was caught by a thin volume with a worn cover: _The Grand Game: Or, the Trials of a Bard: A Memoir ,_ it read. She began to flip through it and her eyebrows went up.

After a few minutes, there was a loud creak from the shop door. “There you are,” Leliana said. “Anything good? If you’re still looking, so will I.”

“I was just finishing,” Cassandra said quickly. She snapped the book shut, slid it between the others she’d chosen, and had the merchant wrap the stack for her.

Outside, the shadows were longer and the sun was at their backs as they walked back up the cobbled high street, the six templars taking up a loose formation around them.

Leliana lifted the silk-wrapped bundle she was carrying. “Josie will be so pleased. But I wasn’t watching the time. I suppose we should go back before duty calls too loudly.”

At the end of the street, they turned a corner by the city wall and saw one of the yellow-robed schismatics, standing on a stack of crates in front of a tavern. Her preaching, in a strong Starkhaven accent, blended with the merchants’ calls and other street sounds at first. As the words became discernible, Leliana slowed to stand in front of her. Cassandra saw the subtle change in her face, her playful self falling away, her hand moving casually to hover at her back.

It was hard to tell whether the false sister recognized them; she just continued railing against them and the Inquisition, calling for purification of the abominable world and the restoration of the true Chantry. Leliana watched her as if memorizing her and pinning her to a mental specimen board. The sister stared back, but she did not pause.

The templars fidgeted and looked angry. Cassandra wondered whether she should step in or challenge the woman somehow, but before she had decided, Leliana broke the stare and nodded to her, and they moved on up the street.

Once they were out of earshot, Leliana said, “They use some very distinctive turns of phrase, all in the same way. I wanted to be sure of it. They must be drawing from the same source, the same leader.”

“Do you think this leader is in Starkhaven?”

“It hasn’t made me less curious about it.”

 

* * *

 

They stayed another week, until the first search parties came back from the dead village empty-handed. Leliana sent out what must have been flocks of birds and couriers with responses to Val Royeaux and orders for her agents in different corners of Thedas. Cassandra met with the guard-captain and knight-commander to offer what help she could in the investigation.

Their official blessing of the chantry was not planned until the morning before they were to leave Tantervale. During the ceremony, a group of the yellow-robes gathered outside and tried to disrupt it by shouting their litany until the grand cleric sent templars to remove them.

After, the streets were quiet, but Cassandra was on edge and kept looking over her shoulder and down every alley. Florentia’s staff had arranged to outfit them for the journey to Kirkwall, with horses, remounts, and the necessary supplies they hadn’t brought. Elaine insisted on being the one to examine it all carefully for traps, and reproached them about doing too much for themselves, so she tried not to be too obvious about checking everything again afterwards.

The grand cleric also brought some of the village survivors to say goodbye. Mari confessed tearily that she was going to live with her grandmother, but she really wanted to stay. “All who walk in the sight of the Maker are one,” Leliana quoted, and embraced her.

Cassandra told her they would find whoever took her parents, and then some of the children ran up and inexplicably hugged her legs, and she bent down and made them all the same promise.

When they rode out, it was through a side gate and into the forest that encroached on the wall, where they could move less visibly until they were well away. She relaxed gradually as they put more distance between them and the city, and after a time there was sunshine and leisurely ordinary talk and she allowed herself to be wheedled into a round of singing, to the surprise of the templars. “The Ballad of Ayesleigh” had an excellent refrain and always lifted her spirits.

 

* * *

 

Three days out from Tantervale, they were riding through more grassland with the Vimmark Mountains a blue line on the horizon. Gusty winds came down over the plain to ripple the grass and tug at their hair and clothes, and clouds massed in the distance. Toward sunset, they passed into a town with a busy inn, windows lit up, surrounded by wagons and caravans.

“Anyone care to stay indoors tonight?” said Leliana. “Not to slight the grand cleric’s suppliers, but these tents are not at all comfortable.”

“Only if you let me choose the names this time,” Cassandra said. This small relenting provoked the surprised chuckle she’d expected and a “By all means.”

“Let me think.” She looked up into the darkening sky as the horse walked, but she already had it. “Ah! Hendallen and Belladonna.”

“ _Hard in Hightown_? Cassandra.”

“You can have your birds the next time.”

The innkeeper smirked at the names until she gave him a stare, and then he took their coin and rented them enough rooms with no trouble.

She took the further chance of eating in the common room, at the darkest back corner table, because Leliana wanted to see what she could overhear. The dead villages were a popular subject among travelers from the north, especially merchants’ guards and soldiers trying to scare the local serving boys and girls. “Nothing but blood,” said one grizzled man, “everywhere, and silence. Eeriest damned thing I hope to see in my life.”

Then the girl who poured his ale said, “But did you not hear about the girl who lived? Saved by the new Divines themselves? They saved all the children. Hands of the Maker now, they’re calling them. I heard they rode dragons too and were beautiful as anything. I wish I could have gone to see ‘em.”

Cassandra choked on her drink and had to cough behind her hand.

Leliana shushed her while laughing silently.

After the conversation had died down, she leaned over the table and said, voice low but still merry, “Mari Van Markham is a little blessing from the Maker herself. That story is excellent for the Chantry’s image. Maybe we should just stay itinerant and doing good deeds forever.”

“I would not object,” Cassandra said, setting her cup down. “You would miss Val Royeaux.”

“Maybe.” She sat back.

It rained that night, drumming hard on the roof, wind shaking and pushing in around the shutters, and forcing its way into Cassandra’s dreams, but it was a milder rain in the Fade, where she walked through the gardens of Halamshiral in a mist, looking for something. They were endless in the dream, leagues on leagues of topiary arches and rose tunnels that led her away from where she started, and the misty diffuse light was fading ahead of her, but when she tried to turn back her feet would not turn, and she struggled to force them until she drifted awake with her eyes stinging. When she slept again, she couldn’t find any of it.

 

* * *

 

A gloomy, wet day from the inn, they were camped in a copse of old oak trees near a lake, some hollowed out and some fallen. They creaked in the wind and dropped leaves into the campfire every so often.

“Did you hear that?” Leliana asked. “Something moved when the wind blew just then.”

“Sylvans?” They had fought a cluster of them earlier that day. Cassandra feared her sword was already notched and abused with wood chopping, but she got to her feet and reached for it.

Elaine, who was stirring the pot for dinner, straightened and let go of the spoon.

“No.” Leliana peered out past their circle of light. “I’ll be back.”

She disappeared into the shadows behind them for some time, and when she returned she was hauling a figure in dull brown scout’s clothing, spitting and cursing and trying to wriggle out of her hold. It was the same woman they had seen preaching in the street in Tantervale, her face now muddy and her hair tangled.

“I knew it,” Leliana said, frowning. “She was sneaking around the horse lines with that.” She pushed the woman to her knees beside the fire and tossed a wicked-looking short blade on the ground out of her reach.

The woman spat again, just missing her foot. “Apostates! Queens and principalities of apostasy!”

Leliana ignored her and said to Cassandra, “This is an opportunity.”

“What are you thinking?”

“I’m not sure. For now, let her stew.”

Cassandra nodded to the other templars, who were playing cards. “You and you, hold this spy and tie her to something.” She sat down on a fallen log, drew the sword across her lap, and started inspecting the edge to touch it up, while they wrestled the woman to a tree on the far side of the clearing and bound her hand and foot.

Leliana walked back and forth with her hands clasped behind her, went over to look into the pot and murmur something to Elaine, then ducked into her tent.

The dulled edge and number of nicks in the fine folded steel were disheartening. She made a mental note to buy a very intimidating axe and dedicate it to sylvans at the next opportunity, and meanwhile dug around for a whetstone and oil and began trying to work them out.

The prisoner pulled on her ropes and craned her neck around to try to see the whole camp. Elaine stirred some more, tasted the soup, then added some salt. The others had gone back to their game.

They all let her stand there through dinner and paid no attention to her occasional shouted insults. Eventually, after she had finished eating, Leliana wandered over in front of the prisoner and looked at her with a raised eyebrow.

“You can’t hurt me, Nightingale.”

“So you know me. Do you have a name?”

Cassandra glanced up now and again while she sharpened, as the voices drifted toward her. Leliana’s cool control and distance when she questioned always drew her in, contradictorily.

“Go fuck yourself into the Black City,” the prisoner retorted.

“I’ve heard that one.” Leliana tilted her head. “What did you think would happen here?”

“I fear nothing.” The woman thrust out her chin. “The Maker rebukes you.”

“You know who we are. You came after us alone. How did you believe it would end? You defeat us all singlehanded and then carry our bloody traitorous heads back to . . .”

“The Exalted March walks in the Maker’s light and does not falter!”

“Yes?” Leliana laced her fingers together at her back, precisely, not fidgeting. “How fortunate.” The prisoner muttered something, and their exchange was inaudible for a while.

Cassandra sighted along the blade, tested the edge, and turned it over. The scrape of the stone seemed loud in the silence.

The prisoner tried to watch her, too. “You can’t hurt me,” she repeated, louder. “The pure faith protects me.”

“And yet by coming here for us you betrayed all your sisters,” Leliana said calmly. “How many are there? You needn’t say. I’ll know soon.”

The prisoner’s jaw worked. Dirty hair fell into her mouth and she pulled at the ropes again. “I’m no betrayer. I followed orders. I’m ready to meet Our Lady at the Maker’s side.”

“I don’t think you will today.”

Their voices faded again.

After a few minutes, the prisoner’s crested and became strident. “Never! Scarlet witch! You’ll cry when you burn!” She jerked her head in Cassandra’s direction. “And her too, forsworn, mage’s—”

“Enough.” Leliana’s voice, no longer conversational, sliced through hers and cut her off short. Cassandra couldn’t see her face, but the prisoner blanched.

She bent over the sword again, suddenly seeing a notch in need of attention, not wanting to admit to the opposite reaction.

A few more inaudible words were exchanged, and then Leliana turned and left the woman tied to the tree.

“Well, she is a darling.” Leliana sat down on Cassandra’s fallen log. “It’s tempting to say kill her and have done with it, but she wants it so badly. I won’t give her the satisfaction.” She grinned, abandoning the air of distance.

“You’re joking, but we cannot martyr her in any case.”

“Of course not. But listen to this: she scoffed at how the dwarves failed her masters and ‘missed their chance at exaltation.’ I think we know now who went to the Carta.” Leliana’s eyes were alight with suppressed excitement.

“And so much becomes clear. These masters should not be too hard to find.”

Leliana rose from the log. “I’m confident Aveline Hendyr and her people can help there.” As she passed Elaine on her way to her tent, she said, “Watch the spy, and put her on a horse in the morning. We’ll turn her over to the guard in Kirkwall.”

 


	8. Kirkwall

Kirkwall was virtually a new city. Varric had written about the restoration efforts, but seeing it with her own eyes was different. When she had come looking for the Champion, the lower parts of the city had been burned out in large areas, the guard was a skeleton crew struggling to keep minimal order, and the site of the chantry along with much of Hightown around it was a blasted no-man’s-land of rubble and vermin.

Today, when they rode up to the landward city gate, a brace of guards in spotless armor opened massive new doors carved with the arms of Kirkwall and saluted with their pikes as their party passed through.

On the other side was a vastly changed Hightown, full of scaffolding, shining clean paving stones, and new construction on all sides. Another guardsman led them through the busy streets to the Viscount’s Keep, which stood alone atop the hill, prominent with no chantry to balance it.

The Exalted March prisoner, tied to her horse behind them, had muttered filth most of the day, until her voice apparently gave out, and had tried to escape twice. The templars stayed with her outside. “The captain should be in at this hour,” Leliana said.

“Yes, she is, my lady,” said the guardsman, “right through here.”

The keep was newly furnished, as was the guardroom, in good order, with neat schedules and announcements posted on the wall and off-duty guards busying themselves with quiet tasks.

“Come in,” Aveline called, and when they entered her office, “Oh! By the Maker, this is a surprise. I beg your pardon, Your Perfection. I didn’t expect you so soon.” She came out from behind her desk and bowed, a tall and solid woman with a broad Fereldan face, red hair tied back sensibly.

“Captain, please, it’s been a long time,” Leliana said. “I’m still grateful for your efforts to protect Elthina.”

“That was mainly Hawke’s work.” Sadness briefly shaded Aveline’s eyes. “But if there’s anything the guard can do to help the Chantry now, you have only to ask.”

The depth of her friendship with the Champion had been clear in Varric’s telling of it. “I am glad to finally meet you, Captain,” Cassandra said.

Now Aveline saw her, and stiffened. “Honored, Most Holy, I’m sure.”

After the disaster of her last visit to Kirkwall, the guard-captain had every right to resent her presence. Cassandra forced back embarrassment and pushed on quickly, “I wish to apologize for kidnapping Varric Tethras. Though he is perfectly well and no doubt a thorn in your side again, I was wrong to do it. As he knows.”

As she spoke, Aveline’s expression went from wary to taken aback and then warmed into a faint smile at _thorn in your side_. “He is that, but also a friend. I appreciate—”

“Did I hear my name?” The door opened again and Varric swung into the room. “Seeker! Nightingale! Your Sublime Holinesses, you’re early! You’ve been keeping them from me?”

“And there he is,” Cassandra said. “We just arrived, Varric.”

“Does the viscount know you’re here? Provisional viscount, I should say. I assume not; he can’t find his hand in front of his face.”

“We haven’t been formally announced,” Leliana said. “First, we brought along a little problem for the captain.”

“A problem?” Aveline raised an eyebrow.

 

* * *

 

Outside, the templars handed their prisoner over, and two guardsmen escorted her away to a holding cell.

“I’m glad you came to us with this,” Aveline said. “We’ve had these fanatics harassing people in the streets for some time. Finally, a good reason to bring them in for questioning.”

“Please, keep me personally informed of anything you learn,” Leliana said. “I’ll come back and help you myself. We need to uncover who’s backing them.”

She and Aveline walked ahead back toward the guardroom, and Varric fell in next to Cassandra. “So, how is it so far, Most Holy?” he asked. “All you dreamed of?”

“I never dreamed of the office,” she said, “but I serve where I am called. It is as I expected. For the most part.”

“I’ve been hearing some pretty crazy stories from up north.”

“The stories are true,” she said, “unless they involve dragons. Have there been such attacks here?”

“Not this side of the mountains. But I’ve kicked more than a few of those Exalted idiots out of the Hanged Man. And I’ve heard creepy things about Starkhaven. Choirboy was a good kid when I knew him, if a little uptight. But after attacking Kirkwall … I don’t like to think about him going off the deep end. Or brainwashed, like some of them say.”

“I understand that the prince took Grand Cleric Elthina’s death very hard. I even sympathize. But if he is behind these Exalted March zealots, we cannot allow it.”

“I’ll pass on what I’ve heard. It may not be him after all.”

Inside, Varric eventually found Provisional Viscount Bran and dragged him out to formally greet them. He was apologetic and scattered, and the iron crown slid to one side on his head as if he was still unused to it.

“Kirkwall welcomes you, Most Holy,” he said, bending over their hands in turn. “A double honor for us. Have you seen the new chantry site? I can show you the plans and walk you through what’s there. Foundations, primarily, but it’s a beginning.”

“The Merchants’ Guild has been virtually useless,” Varric added. “Not to mention the nobles. Guess it’s not surprising. I’ve ended up sponsoring a lot of the rebuilding myself, don’t ask me how. Dredging the harbor, red lyrium remediation, new houses in Lowtown, it goes on. Oh, and getting Meredith out of the Gallows square.”

Leliana chuckled and Cassandra said, “How did you ever manage that?”

“It wasn’t easy, but there was no way we were going to leave that big evil chunk of lyrium out in public. I’ll show you where we put her sometime. There was a parade and everything.”

Bran jumped in with, “It’s a very safe place, although the knight-commander might not approve if she could see it.” He straightened the crown on his head. “And, Most Holy, there are a number of events planned in your honor in the coming days. I have a list here.”

After going through the list and summoning stewards to bring their few things to the guest wing of the keep, he excused himself.

Varric stayed for a drink and told them more about the goings-on in Kirkwall and how he’d become a de facto reconstruction leader. “When I got back, I started with restoring Hawke’s estate and learned she’d left the last of her fortune to me. She probably thought it was a great joke.” He laughed, a little bitterly. “But she cared about this piece-of-shit city too. I think it’s what she’d want.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” Cassandra said. “She was the Champion.”

Varric’s mouth tightened, and he rubbed his eyes. “Yeah.” He changed the subject. “There’s been no official Chantry presence here since the Gallows emptied out. What will you do? Apart from Bran’s little list.”

“That should be quite enough,” Leliana said. “But we’re rebuilding, too. Diplomacy and reconnaissance. Remapping our terrain. Seeing what’s needed.” She paused. “If you learn anything, Varric, that you can tell me …”

“Of course, Nightingale,” he said. “Can I still call you that?”

“I’d be sad if you did not.” She smiled at him, one of the undiplomatic ones that lit her face honestly.

“I’ll go through my notes back at the Hanged Man.” Varric gave a flourishing bow that took both of them in. “Until tomorrow.”

 

* * *

 

At sunrise the next morning, Cassandra sought out the courtyard where the guard trained. She’d taken up practicing regularly with Elaine since the morning on the boat, and was nearly back to her full strength.

Leliana was there, talking to Aveline over tea laid out on a barrel as the captain supervised the first shift’s drills.

She walked over to them, slinging her shield over her back. “Have you seen our knight-captain?”

“I suspect she may have enjoyed the time off too much last night,” Leliana said behind her teacup.

Aveline said, “I have my men to see to, or I’d go a few rounds, Seeker, er, Your Holiness.”

“Varric and his nicknames. Cassandra will do. If I may call you Aveline. Another day?”

She held out her hand, and after a moment, Aveline shook it firmly. “Well. Another day, then.”

Leliana set the teacup on the barrelhead. “Since I’m here, I could cut in for you.”

It wasn’t as though they hadn’t sparred with each other before. It had just been a while. And the extra challenge would be welcome now.

When she nodded, Leliana turned to the rack behind them and picked up two short swords, tested the balance, then stepped out into the open dirt. “I rather miss it.”

Aveline’s brow furrowed and she strode over to where the guards were drilling. “Guardsmen! Back well up and give the Most Holy their space. Move! No, further!”

Cassandra wondered briefly if she should go back for heavier mail, but Leliana had none and seemed unconcerned. She could pull her blows if necessary, she supposed.

She closed her eyes and did the centering she always did, clearing her mind and asking the Maker’s guidance. The calm settled on her, and when she opened her eyes, she pulled the shield onto her arm, drew, and took position in the center of the yard. Leliana followed, mirroring her.

The dawn light was warming, colors coming out of the grayness all around, and there was a breeze off the sea. Everything felt clear and vivid and fresh: the guard’s banners, the little green vines climbing between the stones of the keep, the sun glinting on steel and silverite.

And the familiar exertion of feint and block, watch and circle had a joy to it, neither of them taking it overly seriously but stretching themselves for the sake of play.

She caught a backhand stroke on her shield and stepped into an opening, but Leliana dodged easily around her and came back at another angle. Cassandra watched her feet, then tried again more successfully, gaining ground; she parried with both blades together and riposted.

They went back and forth over the patch of dirt, chasing and following and reversing and adding complications for the fun of it; there was only the clear morning air and the pattern they made and the question of how to counter next.

After a particularly clever series of maneuvers, she found her back was to the keep wall. Leliana’s momentum carried her forward. Another step and Leliana was leaning into her, left blade edge caught on hers.

Her eyes were starry and she was breathing hard and laughing, pressed against her over the crossed swords, breaking Cassandra’s concentration and driving out the Maker’s serenity.

The wish to hold her there and not deflect her was so abrupt and dizzying that Cassandra didn’t register the next beat, the other hand, before something bit her left shoulder, hard.

The pattern fell apart. Leliana pulled back instantly, exhilaration turning to surprise and dismay. “You didn’t—”

Her shield only had to go up a few inches to block. It should have been automatic. “It’s nothing.” She let it drop and felt at the cut. The blade had gone through the quilted cloth and leather and the shirt underneath. That was surely blood. “Shit,” she said under her breath, and then, “My mistake. Don’t worry yourself. Let me go clean it.”

“Are you—” Leliana didn’t finish, but stepped away to let her pass.

Varric had come in and joined Aveline, Cassandra noticed as she crossed the yard holding her shoulder, both of them looking confused, and there was another woman with them, a black-haired elf in green. The other mage, Merrill? Maker take it, of course there had to be an audience.

The guards had their own baths, adjacent to the barracks; empty now, since all of them were outside gawking. She dipped hot water from one of the coppers into a basin and splashed her face with both hands, ripped back the slashed layers of fabric and rinsed the blood away with another handful of water, then blotted it with a cloth.

She’d beaten spiritual focus into herself over decades. Surely it could not break down so easily. What kind of Divine would she be to keep letting imagined feelings muddy her connection to the Maker?

She looked at her wavering reflection in the water and touched the cut. It was long, but clean and shallow. Her fingers came away red, and she scrubbed at them again.

Even if it were not wrong for the Divine to divide her loyalties, courting _Leliana_ of all people was a ridiculous notion for so many reasons.

The feeling wasn’t even pleasant. Like having the ground pulled from under her, or falling from a height, infuriatingly and repeatedly, in spite of her efforts.

Maybe the Maker was testing her. She would just have to find the patience and ride it out.

 

* * *

 

The sword she’d borrowed from the guards’ rack was streaked with red. Leliana wiped it off carefully.

Cassandra had never let such an obvious hit through where she could see it. Was she still not recovered, or lying about her condition? No; lies were not her strength, and her rare attempts were endearingly, blatantly transparent.

And now Leliana had hurt her one more time without meaning to. When she’d been close enough to kiss her, and, admittedly, more than half thinking about it again.

The dark part of her mind wondered if this was her nature now, if she would somehow preemptively strike at anyone too close. Then she wanted to laugh at it. _Maker’s breath, don’t feel too sorry for yourself while you’re cleaning up her blood._

It had been so good up to that point—they had always fought well—but until she could shake this run of ill luck, paperwork and arguing were evidently safer.

She set both short swords back in the rack and walked to where Aveline and Varric had their heads together.

“Andraste’s ass, what—” Then Varric saw her. “Sorry, Your Holiness, let me rephrase: what’s wrong with the Seeker?”

“Nothing,” Leliana said. “Just a slip.”

He looked skeptical.

“Maybe Merrill can help,” Aveline suggested.

Varric gestured to the elven woman beside them. “Daisy, meet the Most Holy Divine Victoria I. The grumpy one was Her Perfection Divine Valeria I. Also my abductor, and a big fan. Oh, look, there she is, coming back.”

The elf laughed. “Varric! I do know that. I pay attention to things.” She dipped her knees in a little half-curtsy to Leliana. “Hello. I’m Merrill.”

Cassandra had come out of the guards’ bathhouse holding a cloth to her shoulder. She stopped in front of them. “Good morning. This is early for you, Varric.”

“Good morning, Your Perfection,” Merrill said, then added, “Such a strange title. I will never understand your Chantry. Not even the gods are perfect. Did you want healing?”

At this, Cassandra took a step back. “Thank you, but … you are a blood mage, are you not?”

Varric held up his hands. “You read the book. Daisy is the sweetest blood mage you ever will see, and her healing is getting much better these days.”

Aveline put in, “I can vouch for that.”

“Thank you.” Merrill’s green gaze went abstract, then focused back on Cassandra. “I could do it very easily, just a little touch. You wouldn’t even have a scar. Not that the ones you have aren’t nice, that is, maybe you want another one? …”

Cassandra interrupted, “You are Varric’s friend and I don’t wish to harm you, but I simply cannot. The Chantry forbids … it is not possible.”

“Blood brings life,” Merrill said. “And I only use mine. But I understand limits.”

Cassandra nodded to them. “I will see you all later.” Then to Leliana. “It is next thing to a scratch. Not in the least serious.”

Leliana watched her collect her shield and leave, troubled.

“I’m sorry,” she said, putting on a smile and turning back to Varric and the elven woman. “Merrill. I could have told you she wouldn’t—”

“I didn’t think she’d go for it, but mages are scarce in Kirkwall these days. Daisy’s about it.”

“I don’t mind.” Merrill was looking around, and then her big eyes came back to rest on Leliana. “It was very nice to meet you, both of you. She will be better soon, I think.”

She was interesting, Varric’s Daisy. Blood mages in Leliana’s experience were desperate, greedy, cruel, power-hungry, or all of the above, but this one seemed like she’d come through the dark and out the other side, with no signs of abomination in her.

“Would you like to stay for breakfast? I can send for food inside.”

They both agreed, although Aveline excused herself to work, and the rest of the morning passed quickly. Over the last of the breakfast in the anteroom of the viscount’s guest quarters, Varric related stories from his contacts, of unrest in Starkhaven, people being turned out of the city, and elven settlements abandoned farther north, isolated Dalish camps wiped out with no explanation.

Merrill, visibly upset by this news, left the rest of her fruit and cheese untouched. “I wish there was something I could do,” she said.

“There could be,” Leliana said. She went to her travel chest, unlocked it, and sorted through papers until she found Cassandra’s drawings of the symbols from the dead border village. “Do you recognize these? We think they may be magical, or left by mages.”

Merrill took the page from her; her eyes widened and she recoiled a little, then leaned back in to study it. “Yes,” she said, “actually, I think so. Or something like them. Kirkwall was built on blood, my people’s blood. I can feel it sometimes in the dark corners, the magisters and the slaves and the power they stole. On the lower levels it’s almost on the surface all the time. I read something once about how the city was built to magnify their magic.”

“Gruesome stories, for sure,” Varric said, “but no one’s proven it.”

“Yes, Varric,” Merrill said, “but something about these signs gives me the same feeling. I need to find the book again.” She looked up at Leliana. “Would you mind at all if I copied this?”

“Please do.” Leliana brought paper and ink from the writing desk and set them in front of her.

Merrill bent over the table and began drawing and scribbling notes, tongue between her teeth, muttering to herself.

“Just a warning: Daisy can be … rather obsessive,” Varric said in an undertone. “Hawke used to worry. She’s better now, but … I’ll see she doesn’t take this too far.”

“I’m interested in anything she finds.” If Merrill could give her something useful, she would take it.

They took their leave soon after, Merrill still preoccupied and Varric guiding her out with care.

A little later, Leliana heard the guard on duty outside talking to someone, and then a knock, and he brought in a dispatch case with the Grand Cathedral seals. Thicker than the last one. The Cathedral clerks must have been busy. She thanked him and resigned herself to at least a day of catch-up.

The interim commander of the remaining Templar Order begged their indulgence upon their return; new officers had to be appointed, forces evaluated, and so on. She set that one aside for Cassandra, along with the request to name a new set of Knights-Divine to replace those who fell at Haven.

Beneath that was a small personal note from the initiate tending her pets. “Most Holy Victoria, while you are away I thought you might wish to know that the Schmooples dynasty are thriving in their new home in the gardens,” it began. The image of the baby nugs rolling around in the flowers with their pink ears waving put a smile on her face that lasted well into the following report from the sisters of coin.

The war and chaos of the last few years had drained the treasuries and the rebuilding would not be cheap, even with the Chantry lands beginning to recover. Leliana sighed as she turned the last page. Celene would help, she thought, with invisible but heavy strings attached. Anora had her own reconstruction to handle, as did most of the Marches. The Antivan princes might lend support.

There were no plans with Viscount Bran until the next day. She got up to open a window for the sea breeze, then worked at the desk alone through the afternoon.

The room was quiet and stayed that way. The shadows had shifted from one wall to the other, and she had just asked for dinner to be sent up, when a runner from the docks delivered another sealed package, this time from Charter at Skyhold: the long-awaited decryptions of the letters she’d found on the Mortalitasi traitors.

Orders, from an unnamed source, likely their recruiter. The well creased and much older first letter had told them to hold position and stay concealed until the Elder One and the Magistra needed their service; the second began with a nonsense phrase she assumed was the code to confirm action, followed by several pages of raving about avenging their great master and continuing his work, blood, apotheosis, and the Black City.

Corypheus’s own correspondence had been admirably to-the-point, in comparison. Leliana wondered if he’d had plans for Nevarra he never got to realize.

Regardless, Cassandra needed to see all of this. These Venatori remnants could be as much of a threat as the Exalted Marchers from the other side.

Each time the door opened, Leliana expected her coming back from wherever she’d been all day, but it was the guard or the kitchen boy or the guard again.

The fourth time, it was the guard escorting the keeper of the viscount’s mews. “Please, Most Holy,” the man said, bowing and tugging at his hood, “if I may be so bold, lady, there’s something up in the tower you need to see.”

She followed him up to the small tower where the viscount’s birds were kept. There, perched in the midst of the smaller hooded hawks and the ravens, beating its wings and letting out dissonant squawks, was a great Tevinter eagle. Or it might once have been one, anyway. Its form was subtly twisted, its feathers a soiled albino, and its eyes glowed green like veilfire. When she entered, it stopped and aimed a look at her over its hooked beak, as if there was some intelligence behind those eyes.

There was a message capsule strapped to its leg, with the sun of the Chantry scratched into the outside. “I couldn’t get close enough to take the message,” the keeper said. “Would’ve had my guts out.”

Leliana looked away from its eyes and advanced slowly toward the eagle, smoothly, with no jerks or sudden changes. When she glanced up, it was still watching her, head tilted, as if to say it knew what she was doing and was not impressed.

When she was close enough to reach, she put out a hand and the pale eagle allowed her to remove the capsule.

The summons inside was in a bold slanting hand, written with the conventions of the Imperium. She recognized it, with a sinking feeling, pieces beginning to line up in her head.

_Victoria, Valeria, as they now call you: I have your scouts and your dragon-hunting lord. You will help me recover something I lost, and I will give them back. Follow the bird to the location on the reverse and come alone, without your templar dogs, or lose them._

_Calpernia, of Minrathous_

There was a map drawn on the back of the paper, with an X over a spot to the northwest, in the Vimmarks.

 _Ida shouldn’t have let her go_ was all she could think at first. The Inquisitor’s heart was soft, for all she was a child of the Stone.

Leliana refolded the note, precisely and slowly, thinking hard. The eagle remained still on the perch it had taken, only its head moving as it watched her back out of the chamber.

“It may be staying a while. Feed it if you can,” she said to the mews-keeper. “But I would keep your other birds away.”

 

* * *

 

When Leliana returned to the guest wing, Cassandra had come back. A set of building plans were unrolled across the tea table, the corners held down with candlesticks and mugs, and she was leaning over them with her back to the door.

She’d changed out of the slashed padded jacket into a clean dark one that buttoned all the way up the high neck, hiding any sign of the new cut.

"I went to view the construction,” she said without turning. “They are planning a memorial for mages and templars alike as part of the new chantry. Come look at this.”

“First, you should see this,” Leliana said. “Something else we didn’t need.” She laid Calpernia’s note on top of the plans. “I don’t know why she’s here and not hunting magisters. Yet.”

Cassandra picked it up and straightened. Leliana watched her eyes take in the words.

Then she said, “I will go,” quickly, like a foregone conclusion, her fingers tightening on the paper.

Pulling in more scouts had been the suggestion on the tip of Leliana’s tongue, not this. She backpedaled. “What? No. It couldn’t be more of an obvious trap.”

“‘Help me recover something I lost.’ She may be sincere in that. Why say it otherwise?” She laid the note on the table and touched the line in question. “But if she has taken Lord Ferdinand and your people, we owe them a rescue.”

“Just because she says to come alone doesn’t mean you charge right out and do it.” Leliana kept her voice low, but she could hear it intensify. “If anything, the opposite.” She went to the desk and picked up the transcripts of the Venatori letters. “Read these. They arrived today.”

Cassandra took them from her, read again.

Leliana went on, “ _Magistra._ Those Mortalitasi reported to her, ultimately. She could be activating these sleepers to step into Corypheus’s shoes, revive the cult. She could easily be the one bleeding the villages.”

“Slaughtering common folk goes against all we know of her.” Cassandra set the letters down and crossed her arms. “Maker knows what she wants. But one of us must go to meet her terms, or she kills the hostages. That does fit her.”

It was a fair point. Calpernia had fallen in with Corypheus to free innocents, not to massacre them. Still, she had to be up to her neck in this.

“So. It makes the most sense for me to go,” Cassandra went on, stubbornly. “I will move fast alone, and find out what she lost.”

On a black-and-white level, it did. But it was not a move Leliana wanted to make. Cassandra fallen, Calpernia gloating over her, no one there; she pictured it and wanted to set a score of ruinously expensive assassins on Calpernia instead.

She felt her tone sharpen. “You wouldn’t have let Justinia walk into that. Neither would I.”

“That is nothing like the same thing.”

“I seem to recall taking some vows recently that say it is.”

“I would be a poor Divine with their blood on my hands.”

This stung, though she knew it wasn’t meant to. The wind had picked up outside and a draft came in through the window she’d left open. She went over to stand in front of it.

“I just don’t want yours on hers,” she said eventually, looking out into the fading twilight, and then pulled the shutters closed. “Be careful.”

The silence stretched out longer. Then Cassandra laughed a little behind her and said in a voice gone softer, “I will.”

They didn’t say anything more to each other that night. Leliana refused to quit the field, so she sat and worked by her own candle, and Cassandra did the same, and the quiet in the room grew around them until it was like a third presence, oddly comforting.

 

* * *

 

Rain dripped from the trees overhead, and from Cassandra’s hair, and the horse’s tack, and fallen soggy leaves squished and slipped underfoot as she led the animal up the mountain trail. It had been a miserable drizzling day, she was soaked through, she could feel every injury from the last three months, and she’d been quietly bargaining with the Maker for a dry place to rest since the sun began dropping on the other side of the clouds.

She’d made good time until now, staying on the move, sleeping in the open a few hours at a stretch and riding or walking the rest. Calpernia’s strange eagle had flown ahead of her, a dirty white spot up in the trees, letting out its unsettling cries, circling back and waking her when it thought she’d slept too long. It was out of sight now, but she knew it would return if she veered off course.

A few more dripping switchbacks, and she saw a dark recess in a rock formation ahead, maybe big enough to crouch in. As she got closer it looked more promising.

“We’ll stop here,” she said to the horse. “You’ll stay outside.”

Making conversation with horses. She’d wanted to be alone, but maybe not this much.

She tied the horse near the opening, gave it some grain, then scavenged dead branches from the dry side of a tree growing against the rock and built a fire under the overhang.

The mountains got cold even in summer, and she was already chilled. The wood smoked at first, but eventually caught. She quickly stripped out of her wet things, staked them out around it, and got into her dry bedroll mostly naked and shivering.

Her clothes steamed. At the mouth of the recess, her horse snorted and stamped. The little fire warmed her face and hands, but the rest of her was still cold, and it was early; there was still light in the sky.

The bard’s memoir _The Grand Game_ stared out at her from beneath _High Dragons of Thedas: A Monograph_ in her saddlebag, defying her to pick it up, as it had been since she left Tantervale. She stared back.

If she wasn’t going to sleep now, she needed some diversion. A light confection of a book was more tempting than a scholarly brick. It had promised to be that.

Finally, she pulled the little volume into the blanket roll with her. The covers were worn smooth and only the length of her hand, and the print was small, on paper of an almost onionskin delicacy.

 _This is my tale, my confession, and my masterwork,_ the first page began. _Listen, then, and I will tell you of how I, Mademoiselle R_____, rose from the streets of the capital to the heights of the imperial court in the twilight of this Blessed Age; of the reputations I shattered and the lives I crushed, the schemes I wove and the backs I stabbed; of the hearts I broke and the virtues I stole, and those I lost my own to in return…_

Cassandra wrinkled her nose. It was preposterous already and could not be a true story, of course. She curled her legs up, settled the blankets around her, pushed closer to the fire for better light, and kept reading.

After three chapters, the heroine had taken a job from a mysterious man, broken into a marquise’s estate to steal documents from her and ended up seducing her as a distraction, fallen for the marquise, and double-crossed her employer.

By the time Mademoiselle X agreed to accompany her lady to court and begin unofficial training as a bard, it was dark except for her little fire, but the cold had fully left her. Cassandra fell asleep after another chapter or so with the book in her hands.

 

* * *

 

The next day was cloudy but dry, and the going was faster.

At what looked like the marked spot on Calpernia’s map, the eagle screamed and dived between two tall, tattered pine trees into a dark grove, its white feathers flashing against the shadows and then disappearing. Cassandra followed it, looping the horse’s reins around her wrist and drawing her sword.

When her vision adjusted she saw a cluster of people, wrists and ankles tied, huddled together under a shimmering barrier field among the pines. Ferdinand Pentaghast, seeing her, raised his head and opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came through the barrier.

Several elves in dark robes were watching the captives. One of them raised a hand and the barrier glowed briefly, intensifying.

The eagle screamed again, startling her, and a green light flared ahead. Calpernia stepped out of the trees, a flame hovering over one hand and glistening over her black dress, the bird perched on her shoulder.

She looked Cassandra up and down, and her lip curled. “So. _Victoria_ hides behind others still. Too craven to come herself? And I thought I said no templar dogs.”

“I brought none.” Cassandra opened her left hand behind her and briefly concentrated on the feeling of magic to build the energy, then forced it out in a dispelling wave. The charged smell of ozone surrounded her. The green fire winked out, satisfyingly, and the barrier flickered and died. “What is it you want?” she continued.

Now she heard muffled shouts from the captives and cries of “Untie us! Please!” The elven assistants moved quickly, and she felt them drawing power to restore the barrier.

Calpernia’s eyes flicked to them for a moment and she frowned, then looked back to Cassandra. “We could do this all day, certainly, but I have no interest. The point is this: much as I dislike you and your Chantry, we have a common enemy.” She raised her hand, and the eagle flew up into the tree above her. “I want something they stole. You presumably want to stop them. I can give them to you.”

“And who are _they_?”

Calpernia sighed impatiently. “The Venatori have splintered, you understand? Some are clinging to the Elder One, even in death. They still believe him a god. They are killing to bring him back.”

The terrain in Cassandra’s head shifted. It made a disgusting kind of sense. The Inquisition had tracked down many scattered Venatori in the south, but not in the Free Marches … and those letters Leliana had decoded could support this.

“Well? Say yes and take these fools of yours off my hands.”

Cassandra glanced back at the captives, once more behind a barrier. Lord Ferdinand was standing and speaking to the others.

“What did they steal that you need so desperately?”

Calpernia laughed. “What does it matter? It would mean nothing to you.”

“Try me.”

“In small words, a book and a set of tools. I took them from Corypheus. The leader of these animals took them from me and ran south.”

Cassandra ignored her condescension. “Then tell me what you know.”

“I want assurances. Swear it on Andraste: the traitor is mine and what he took is mine.”

She didn’t like the idea of circumventing the rightful justice owed, but on the other hand, there was a poetic justice to it. “The traitor is yours and what he took is yours,” Cassandra said. “By the blood of Andraste. If what you give us is worth it.”

Calpernia reached into a pocket of her dress, took out a blue memory crystal, and held it up between her fingers. “Take this back to your Victoria. She should remember what to do with it. I will contact her soon.” She gestured and the barrier vanished. “There. And take them away.”

 


	9. Kirkwall

“That’s enough for today, I think, Captain.” Leliana rose from the chair she had pushed against the cell wall. The prisoner stared after her. “Good day, daughter,” Leliana said, to see if she would spit, and she did.

It was a distinct possibility that she’d reached the end of the woman’s knowledge that first night. All she’d learned since was that the Exalted March were evidently as fond of burning as the old Tevinters, missing the part of the tale where that was a bad thing, and angry about anything that might bring the Chantry into the new age where it should be.

Aveline unlocked the cell door for her and relocked it behind them. “Do you think she’ll give up anything else?”

Leliana shrugged. “We may have to look for other lines of inquiry. Do they have a presence in the city now? Have you brought in any others?”

“My Lowtown patrols reported complaints about them around the market stalls and the Hanged Man in the last few days,” said Aveline as they walked back through the guard barracks. “So, today, I set a guardsman out of uniform to watch for them.”

“If your man catches one, send for me, no matter where I am.”

Aveline went into her office with a nod and an “Of course,” and Leliana continued into the keep proper, taking the longer way up to the rooms to avoid the throng of courtiers in the entrance hall.

Knight-Captain Elaine and three of her company were arrayed outside the door this morning, armor well shined, the picture of templar discipline. They answered her “good morning” with a chorus of “Yes, Most Holy” and four salutes as she went in.

The outer room had been straightened in her absence and the shutters opened. Sun streamed across the carpets, and the sounds of the city drifted up through the windows.

She remembered attending Justinia during her hours of dressing and preparation for a day of business with the public. This morning there were neither vestments, burned up in Cumberland, nor sisters to attend her. Philosophically, she liked it; the Chantry should not hold itself so apart and above the world, as she had argued to Cassandra before. Pragmatically, though, it was harder to sway an audience without the pageantry.

Still, anything unexpected made its own impact. She took a moment to run a comb through her hair and make sure her traveling clothes were clean and well ordered. Then, for want of something to do, she rang for tea and spent a while finding the best vantage point in the room for her chair.

Shortly, there was a knock that signaled her first petitioners: a group of revered mothers from outlying towns around Kirkwall who had been driven out of their chantries by the war. She put the women at ease by offering teacups with her own hands, asked after their congregations, and told them the Chantry would see their homes restored. _Although how we will pay for it, I don’t know._

They were followed by a queue of representatives of Hightown families, most of whom were much less pleasant. One pair actually tried to look down their noses at her and make demands. Leliana made a mental note of their names, answered them sweetly, and did not pour them tea.

Her teeth were on edge by the time she had to give her fifth vague explanation for Divine Valeria’s absence. If there was a next round, it would be Cassandra’s to handle. When she got back, alive and intact, as she must be right then.

After the nobles, a delegation of community leaders from Lowtown crowded in. Leliana was in the middle of discussing the rebuilding timeline and the red lyrium quarantine, evading questions about the Circle, when Elaine knocked and brought in a very polite guardsman.

“Er, Donnic Hendyr, Your Holiness. Av—the captain asked me to come straight to you.” He looked at her guests, looked down, and shuffled his feet.

“Of course,” Leliana said, standing. “We’ll need to continue this another day, I’m afraid,” she told them.

Down in the guardroom were two more Exalted Marchers Hendyr had brought in. Aveline beamed at him while he described how he’d tracked them down by following notices they’d posted in different parts of Lowtown.

He produced one, a garish thing with a painted flame and directions to a dockside warehouse for a “True Followers of Andraste Revival Meeting” that night.

The two were as sullen and silent as the first, but Leliana realized she and the knight-captain were of a size with them. A certain rescue in Denerim back in the year of the Blight popped into her head, and in a few moments of quick thought, she had a new plan.

Impulsive, yes, but she was restless and tired of being left with paperwork. Firsthand knowledge of the cult would be invaluable, and it would be so easy to get it. It was completely within her abilities and certainly more practical than Cassandra’s singlehanded rescue plan.

Elaine didn’t argue when told she was going to infiltrate an enemy meeting with the Most Holy; but how could she?

 

* * *

 

They met in the guards’ bathhouse after sunset and Aveline handed over the prisoners’ clothes. The old saffron-and-rose sister’s robe was worn and tight over Leliana’s shoulders, but otherwise fit reasonably well. She smoothed the sleeves down and remembered her last one, bloodstained and abandoned the day she left Lothering with the Wardens.

Elaine had to squeeze in harder, but the disguise was eventually achieved. She made sure their hair was covered and their faces altered enough to escape recognition. The few reports Leliana had received agreed that the Exalted March were barely organized, allowing any human who denounced the new Chantry to join, so new faces wouldn’t be unusual.

Both of them were armed under the robes, in case she was wrong.

When she gave Elaine an operational name, the templar just nodded and said “Yes, Most Holy,” which felt slightly disappointing.

The warehouse was on the far side of the docks, standing alone, a dark jagged silhouette half-collapsed into the sea; Varric’s crews must not have made it this far yet. Through the cracks between the boards, she could see light inside, and hear voices.

When they entered, hoods low over their faces, Leliana had prepared herself to talk fast, but no one looked twice at them. The central chamber of the warehouse was open to the sky, and people were massed on the sand, the steps and the upper balconies, in robes like theirs and everyday clothes, all human, all focused on one woman who stood speaking in front of a bonfire in the center. They echoed her in a collective shout each time she paused, so loud Leliana’s ears began to ring.

She touched Elaine’s arm and led her to the back of the crowd against one wall. “Just follow me,” she mouthed, and the templar nodded.

The woman had a good voice, and maybe some training, because Leliana felt the pull of it as she called the crowd to burn away their sins, come up and throw them in the fire, purify themselves of wickedness and demon influence and let the true Andraste embrace them. They pressed forward eagerly to do so, almost trampling each other.

She was flanked by several other cultists in Chantry robes who held themselves with some authority. One was standing in the storeroom entrance on the other side of the fire.

After listening a while, Leliana began to casually edge around toward her, in between the call-and-response shouts. The rite was building in energy. Thrown objects landed in the flames and threw up gouts of sparks: clothing, books, pictures, trinkets. Some rolled out and lay burning in the sand by the wall. A bottle of liquor smashed on a log and ignited blue. People fell to their knees, overcome, and had to be pulled away from the fire by others.

The woman guarding the storeroom seemed fully caught up in the excitement, clasping her hands in front of her and taking small steps toward the fire. As Leliana watched, she glanced behind her a few times and then abandoned her post, pushing through toward the front, and the crowd closed ranks around her.

She took the opportunity, stepped silently around their backs in the shadows under the balcony, avoiding eye contact with anyone, and ducked into the storeroom out of sight. Elaine followed, shaking her head to say no one had seen.

A few dim torches burned in rickety brackets. Behind a shelf of crates on one side of the room was a small, finely made dwarven printing press, standing unattended amid stacks of paper and casks of ink. One sheet stuck out from under the plate. Leliana turned the wheel gently, froze when it squeaked, then after holding her breath for a long second pulled it out.

A handbill, with columns of smudgy text, at first the same familiar rhetoric: calling them anti-Divines and alternately puppets of the Inquisition and Tevinter, decrying the pollution of the faith by other races and magic, misquotes from the Chant, threats of burning.

But as she read on, the abuse became more directly personal, mentioning things they should have no way of knowing, and cold anger crept further over her.

When she reached the crude woodcut caricatures of what was presumably meant to be Cassandra and Regalyan D’Marcall, the cold crystallized, and she crushed the paper in her hand.

“Don’t read it. Fetch me a torch,” she said under her breath to Elaine, whose eyes widened, but she obeyed.

The rest of the paper burned well, as did the casks, and once the wood had caught well enough and it was licking at the wall, Leliana looked back a second and then pulled Elaine back out into the central room.

“Fire!” she called, disguising her voice. “It’s out of control! Run!"

Out in the dark streets, she walked fast, long steps eating up the ground, and Elaine hurried to keep up. The flames were high behind her in the distance, but the crowd had all gotten out, even though at the moment she couldn’t bring herself to feel too sorry for them.

Someone inside the Chantry had been feeding them information. She was angry, but it had a sharper direction now.

Back at the keep she thanked Elaine absently and dismissed her, beginning to strip out of the disguise, her mind already full of branching next steps.

A counter-propaganda campaign was called for. Perhaps a coordinated infiltration in other cities. And there was work for her few internal agents left in Val Royeaux. She should apologize to Viscount Bran for the loss of the warehouse.

The press would be a significant loss to the cult here, too. Everyone in that room tonight had the habits and accents of the lower classes; someone else had bought it for them, and dwarves kept good records. If the zealots were a cat’s-paw for someone’s efforts to take power, that meant a grand cleric, or someone of equal rank.

She tossed the robe and hood on her bed and sat to wipe the paint from her eyes and cheeks. Once her face and hands were scrupulously clean, she began a new flight of orders. Orders to agents, orders to the Cathedral, orders of commission to certain popular artists and writers, orders to the Merchants’ Guild and all the printers in Kirkwall, all sealed with Victoria’s ring or Nightingale’s mark.

Each one built on her resolve to finish this now, before they could establish a stronger foothold, until finally, toward dawn, she wrote out a series of orders to have Sebastian Vael and any other Starkhaven noble who could be linked to the Exalted March secretly seized and spirited away to safehouses for questioning.

The ink blotted as she finished. She pushed the letters away and took a breath. Then, needing to calm herself, she lit a candle for Andraste and knelt to make her regular devotions, which she’d missed too often on the precipitous journey from Nevarra.

The cold edge within her dulled as she lost herself in the Chant, and in prayer for the nations she now watched over and the friends she missed, and ended with the prayers for Justinia’s spirit and grace that she’d been saying since Haven and Adamant and Valence.

When she sensed herself sliding toward sleep, she blew out the candle and climbed into bed. And she dreamed: the Fade’s wavering reflection of the former Lothering chantry, lines of pews, bookshelves, familiar paths she’d walked so often. She turned a corner and saw a figure reading, out of her place and time: Mother Dorothea, dressed as she’d been the day they met, not yet—or no longer?—Justinia.

Dorothea looked up from her book and smiled, and Leliana hurried to embrace her, felt her feet catch in the skirts of the robes she realized she wore, the headdress overbalancing her head. The older woman stood and came to her instead; her arms felt as wiry-strong and warm as they had in life.

They walked together and Dorothea chuckled and listened and gave her what felt like important advice, although it all slipped out of her mind when she tried to hold it, and it went on for hours, until the late-morning knock of the girl with her breakfast on the real door outside broke through into consciousness and the remnants of the dream fell away.

It was just Fade-patchwork of disconnected old memories, she knew, but as she pulled on her clothes and drank her chocolate, she still felt reassured and soothed.

Then the final letters on her table caught her eye, lying in a patch of sunlight. She read them over with fresh eyes and reconsidered.

She didn’t regret much of the night’s work, but she was still reaching for familiar solutions first, not stepping back. Cassandra was doing the same. They were falling into old habits instead of taking the opportunity for change. Right and Left Hands of the Maker were fine roles to play, yes, but what more could they be?

(And how did she mean that exactly? And was it a virtuous question or a self-serving one?)

She looked out into the brightness of the morning, leaned her chin on her hand, and let the light fill her mind and blot out everything else for a long contemplative interval.

Then she separated out the Starkhaven orders and filed them away in her chest for now.

 

* * *

 

She was at prayer again the next day when a servant came to tell her Divine Valeria had returned.

Leliana went to the battlements, and the sight of her unmistakably riding up the street among the rescued spies released knots she hadn’t realized were there. She let herself look down and be relieved for a few minutes, then descended to meet them.

Cassandra swung down from her saddle and crossed the courtyard in the red sunset light, swift and unscathed and straight to her; it took her off balance, unfairly like something out of a ballad. _One of the courtly lays from the last Age,_ she thought; _only those always end differently—_

Rather than continue this line of thought, she squeezed her eyes shut for a second and substituted a list of Cassandra’s more irritating habits. _Ruining parties. Stonewalling. Tactlessness. Disliking nugs and horses. Leaving books face down …_

A few feet away now, Cassandra gave her a curious look, but didn’t ask why she’d laughed.

“Calpernia only wanted to talk,” she said as they walked in together. Seeing Leliana’s expression, she added, “I was surprised, too.”

So, the magister was playing some longer game. She would take it. She touched the blue memory crystal Cassandra handed her, held back her immediate questions, and followed her in.

 

* * *

 

Calpernia had disappeared shortly after they spoke, walking away into the trees with her elven assistants and vanishing without a track to follow. Her bird had stayed behind to peer down and scream occasionally; Cassandra was fairly sure the magister could watch them through its glowing eyes somehow.

Leliana’s agents were obvious among the captives because their clothes and manners were almost too ordinary, in a studied way. But also, most of the others wore the Pentaghast livery, and after she freed him and his men, Lord Ferdinand promised her the gratitude of Nevarra again. It seemed he had tracked the former Mortalitasi into the mountains where Calpernia was lying in wait for their master, then somehow stumbled into her ambush so that the mages escaped and she took him prisoner instead.

“Give me a decent dragon any day,” he said, wincing and favoring one shoulder as he got to his feet. “These mages are all slippery. I’ve been under that damnable blue barrier for days, and with no healing either.”

“I agree,” she said. It was far from the first time she’d wished for a simple dragon to slay instead of the tangle she and Leliana were facing.

“Damned Tevinters. You’d think they’d run north, not into the Marches.” He gave her a matter-of-fact if grumbling report of his chase, and said his men were at the Chantry’s disposal if they picked up the trail again.

After sharing a meal from their combined supplies and a fire for the night, they parted ways, Ferdinand’s company leaving westward and Cassandra and the agents back toward Kirkwall. The eagle trailed them at a distance; she was starting to resent its green stare. When she rode ahead to scout the path, it followed her. When she led the horse and walked with the others, it fell back.

Kirkwall was a welcome sight by the time its walls appeared, and if Calpernia’s eagle followed them through the gates, she didn’t see it. She was pleased to have real developments in the case to show Leliana, and gratified that she’d been right, and furthermore, ready for a hot bath and clothes that didn’t smell of mud and horse.

For days after that, though, it felt like they were caught up in circling over the same ground and waiting.

In the mornings, Aveline was a restful sparring partner, straightforward with no twists and turns. She was calming and steady to talk to as well, and they began to build a kind of camaraderie, though she still deferred and wouldn’t use Cassandra’s name.

The days were dedicated to state and Chantry business. Leliana absented herself and left it to her for several of them, which she supposed she deserved. She paced behind the table in their anteroom and judged questions and petitions from mothers and sisters and brothers and templars displaced by the war, nobles ingratiating themselves, dispatches from the Cathedral.

It was all individually important, but overshadowed by the nights out of the public eye, spent in more hot and cold arguments with Leliana where she tried to stand on principle and found herself turned around and not saying what she’d meant.

The warehouse burning, when she heard about it, made her uncomfortable, and she tried to say she would rather they ignore the Exalted’s lies altogether; Galyan was with the Maker now, he did not care, she did not care. But something about this when she said it made Leliana’s face fall, which wasn’t her intention.

The rogue Venatori were the important problem: a present and horrific danger to the people, not a jumped-up cult with political motivations. When she pressed this point, Leliana said coolly that it was a good description of both, and they ended up going back and forth over Calpernia’s possible intentions and picking apart every word Cassandra remembered her saying over and over.

Finally, after five days, Varric found a trustworthy dwarven artificer who’d worked in Tevinter to read the crystal, breaking the loop of speculation with real evidence.

He set up a reading device on the table in their anteroom, twiddled knobs and adjusted things, then set the crystal in place. A shining blue haze filled the room and coalesced into ghostly figures: Calpernia, standing and holding out one hand, and another, blurry from the neck up, apparently wearing the crystal.

 _“You are certain?”_ she asked.

 _“I can find them.”_ It was a male voice, young-sounding, with a Dalish accent.

_“Then we will await your return.”_

He bowed to her and ducked out of what seemed like a tent into the open. The crystal then showed a long period of travel on foot through forest, until he approached the edge of a camp. Dalish, with cloudy blue aravel sails and halla wandering about, but no guards on watch. He hid in some bushes, then crept to the other side of the aravels.

A group of figures in robes were herding bound Dalish into a circle. The clan’s keeper burst out of a stand of trees, raising her staff, but one of them raised a hand and felled her with a word. They dragged her into the circle with the others and it was quick: blades, screams, splashes of blue. The picture jumped as he recoiled, breathing harshly. He crouched down lower, and foliage obscured the view.

There were mechanical sounds in the distance, a clicking and grinding of metal. A low chanting began, then abruptly stopped mid-verse. Silence except for the eerie machine sound; footsteps, crushing leaves; then the young elf screamed and the picture blurred as he was dragged out of hiding, bumping over the ground toward the bodies in the circle.

He fell face down and the crystal went dark. The chanting resumed, and the mechanical grinding grew louder, almost drowning it out. A rising static-sizzling sound joined it. There was a bright flash in the crystal, and then nothing.

“Overloaded,” the artificer said. “Energy surge. But there’s something else, about a day later, maybe.”

He turned the crystal slightly, and the blue cloud re-formed itself, along with a babble of voices, Calpernia’s recognizable among them. When her face came into view, it was contorted with the pain of recognition, and then anger. Remembering Daniel, Cassandra unwillingly felt for her.

Calpernia’s blue fingers closed around the crystal, and the image dissipated again, leaving them shaken in the regular light of day.

“More weird shit,” Varric muttered in the corner. “I don’t like it.”

“It is much more than we knew before. It must help.” Cassandra held out a hand, and the dwarf passed her the crystal. She turned it in her fingers.

“Let’s go see about your pay.” Varric got up and clapped the artificer on the back.

When they had gone, Leliana closed the door behind them and turned back. “I wish I could have _seen_ , not only heard.” She crossed her arms and walked to the window. “Such a waste. That poor boy.”

“Calpernia apparently agrees.” Cassandra fell silent, examining the crystal. Then she said, “This has become too much for us alone. I think we have to call on the Inquisition. Whatever those Exalted March fools think of it.”

Leliana’s eyebrows rose, but she said, “No, I agree. These mages are remnants of Corypheus’s organization, after all. Ida and Cullen will be delighted to assist, I think. And the Maker knows we lack the forces.”

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Cassandra wrote formally to Skyhold requesting aid to search the region, signed it and sealed it and watched the messenger take it away, and then there was nothing for it but waiting again.

And more audiences. Her day was filled again; respectable Kirkwall society couldn’t get enough of standing in line to gawk at the Divines, no matter which one was in, or whether she was preoccupied and more likely to growl at them than provide tea.

Mid-day, Leliana walked in just as a cringing nobleman who’d asked her to bless his new mansion was leaving. He mumbled something and scurried out. She glanced after him, and her mouth twitched. “I could take the rest of the afternoon, if you like.”

“I have nothing else to do,” Cassandra said. “And that was very satisfying, just then.” She added, “But, yes, stay.”

The half-smile turned into a real one, quickly, and she dropped into the other chair.

“We may not be permitted to wander free much longer. I only got word the other day that the Cathedral had decided to send a ship, and now it’s arrived. I’ve been at the docks.”

“Already?”

“The _Cathaire_. One of the last intact in the fleet. With a full complement of attendants, guards, hangers-on.” She looked up, as if calculating. “I will vet them all before we go, but her captain tells me we must be to Antiva and back before the storm season begins.”

Trapped in the middle of the Waking Sea with a microcosm of the Cathedral court. On a boat. The Maker was very demanding.

“I know,” Leliana said, reading her expression and half smiling again. “She is a fast ship.”

The afternoon passed more lightly than the morning had. They helped some petitioners who had real problems, and Leliana was able to disarm the others and send them along easily.

When they had worked through to the last one on the list and he walked in, it turned out to be Varric.

“Most Holy—oh, both of you. Good.” He set his hands on the table. “I wanted to tell you I bought out the Hanged Man for tonight. Private party. Just my good friends and some cards. No standing on ceremony, no discussion of anything important. I thought you might need a break. If you’ll honor us by slumming it.”

Leliana perked up. “Of course we’ll come, yes?” She glanced over. “Who knows, it may be our last chance to do something so pontifically inappropriate.”

Cassandra was unconvinced of that, but a diversion did appeal.

 

* * *

 

That night, when they made their way inconspicuously down to Lowtown and knocked on the door below the hanging figure, seven places were set at a long table in the middle of the common room. Aveline and a pleasant-faced man who had to be her husband had taken two of them, and Varric pulled out two more chairs.

The sixth in the party was a dark-haired, dark-skinned woman in a showy tricornered hat, tall boots, daggers, and very little else, who walked in grinning like she owned the place.

Varric waved her over. “That’s Isabela. You’ll know her from _The Tale of the Champion_ and maybe a little of _Hard in Hightown_. Rivaini, for the dubious sake of your soul, I hope you know who they are.” He nodded to them.

“That’s Admiral Isabela now, if you please.” She took off the hat and swept it in front of her. “So many lovely ships out there all alone, just waiting for me to take them in. Out of the goodness of my heart, naturally.”

“We first met some time ago, in fact,” Leliana said. She moved to the end of the table and smiled at Isabela. “I still use some of those dueling techniques, you know, Admiral.”

“Well, that’s flattering. I’m not likely to forget teaching you, Most Holy.” The answering smile on Isabela’s lips was slow. Then she sized Cassandra up with a glance. “I’m suddenly feeling much more Andrastian than usual. Have something I can kiss?”

“ _Isabela_ ,” said Aveline, rising to her feet, each syllable separately aghast.

Her chuckle made the gold at her neck and ears flash. “Fine, I’ll behave.” She dropped the hat back on her head.

Leliana had laughed too. Cassandra chose to ignore it.

“But it looks like I’m behind on the drinks,” Isabela said. “Can’t have that. Off to catch up.” She turned and wove between tables to the bar corner, stopping to greet the serving girl, who blushed at what she said.

“That’s our pirate captain,” Varric said.

“Admiral!” she called from the bar.

“I won’t start apologizing for her or I’d get nothing done.”

“Indeed,” Aveline said, sighing and sitting back down. “But I do.”

The last arrival was Merrill, carrying an armful of books and notes, which Varric persuaded her to set aside. “Yes, Varric,” she said, “but the Divine asked me for this,” and she gathered up most of the papers and pressed them on Leliana, who took them with grace.

“Daisy, you can brief her on creepy blood history tomorrow. Sit down and have a drink, or the other way around.”

“Yes, I suppose,” Merrill said, and she went to the counter, then returned following Isabela, who had a tray of drinks.

“That’s yours, kitten,” she said, handing Merrill one, then dropped the tray in the middle of the table and sat down at the far end beside Leliana.

“Is it true that the elves in Orlais have brought back the eluvians?” Merrill asked. “It is, isn’t it.”

Leliana nodded. “I’ve seen them. The Inquisitor even used them.”

“Oh, I would like to go there,” she said, clasping her hands. “To Skyhold, as well. I’ve read—Varric tells such stories about it …”

As Merrill went on about ancient elven magic, Cassandra turned to Varric, at her end of the table. “So. How is your writing going? Unless that counts as important talk.”

“I’m in the middle of something important at the moment. But you’ll like this too: I’m thinking about continuing _Swords and Shields_.”

“Oh!” Cassandra said, and reached for a cup, to cover her excitement.

Varric chuckled. “My editor says demand has gone up after that new installment you and the Inquisitor wrung out of me, and she wants me to consider it.”

“It was good,” she said. “I told you it was. I have recommended it.”

“Well, endorsement from the Sunburst Throne isn’t going to hurt.”

Aveline leaned over. “Will you at least think about changing the cover, Varric?”

“Not my call,” he began, and started into a story about his cover engraver and his editor and a feud they had carried on for years.

Cassandra listened and nodded. Over his head she could see Isabela setting out the cards and asking Merrill to cut them. Leliana was leaning into the table, resting her chin on a closed hand, watching Isabela talk with a knowing and skeptical face.

The hearth was at her back, and firelight did suit her, Cassandra thought again, the way it ran along her skin like it was excited to touch her, and caught in her hair. And she looked more relaxed than she had in days, joking with the pirate like that.

This had been a good idea of Varric’s.

“…And so that’s the only cover there is. Unless you want to arrest him. Which I wouldn’t mind,” Varric said as Aveline got up to fetch another round. He set down his cup. “What do you think?”

She realized she hadn’t heard the middle of the story. “What were you saying?”

He glanced from her to the other end of the table and back. “A lot of things.” Then he sat forward and said in an undertone, “But never mind. I see it now. Andraste’s— You care for her, Seeker.”

Her heart jumped unpleasantly. She kept her voice dry. “Of course, Varric. I’ve known her much longer than I have you.”

“No, no, no, you _care_. Slipping up fighting, watching her like that when she’s not looking ... that’s as bad as one of my romances.” Cassandra pulled back and glared at him, and he held up a hand. “Oh, don’t worry. You both still scare the shit out of me. Handle it your own way. Just don’t bring Thedas down around you.”

She narrowed her eyes.

“Seriously. I won’t say a word.” He grinned. “She’s fucking terrifying when she wants to be. You probably like that.”

“Varric, you’re drunk.”

“But I’m right.” He took another drink. “None of my business. Go on being tormented if you want. It works for you.”

“Shut up.”

“Okay, okay.” Varric chuckled until she glared again. “You can still play cards, right, Your Perfection?” He turned and raised his voice. “Hey, Isabela, deal us in.”

 

* * *

 

It was the first game of Wicked Grace Leliana had played since before Haven, and though it might be less seemly for the Divine than for the Left Hand, she was realizing she’d missed it.

Cassandra, at the other end of the table, had loosened up enough to laugh at Varric’s jokes and had a lovely color in her cheeks. She’d already lost six times by playing the most forthright and by-the-book hands of anyone, while _Admiral_ Isabela had been cheating brazenly the entire time, palming cards and slipping them under the table and into her clothes.

To stop her, Leliana had begun to quietly counter-cheat, sneaking her cards back and switching them, which only made Isabela grin, say more outrageous things, and do it more.

“I saw a ship flying the Chantry colors when I came in,” Isabela said, laying down a dagger and two angels. “Yours, Your Holiness?”

“The Grand Cathedral sent it when they heard of our … eventful … journey here.” Leliana gestured over the table and switched one of the angels for a song of temerity. “We are to sail as far as Antiva.”

“Oh, I could take you there,” she said. “Mine is much bigger and more fun.”

“I don’t think most of the college of clerics would approve of your kinds of fun,” Leliana said, and laughed quietly when Isabela took the angel back under her nose and slid it into her own bodice.

“I’m sorry. She’s really always like this,” Aveline said to Cassandra. She played a pair of songs and discarded another card.

“Don’t lie, you love it,” said Isabela.

“I think you really do, Aveline,” Donnic said, and everyone laughed.

Cassandra played two knights Leliana had slipped into her hand, dawn and ages, and drew another, which should have been a knight of roses. Her eyes brightened—she really had no face for cards—and she held on to it.

But on her next turn, Isabela laid down a full set of angels she’d gotten from who knew where, including the angel of death, and crowed at her victory again.

As Isabela was gathering up the cards to reshuffle and Leliana was trying to prevent her from stacking the deck, Cassandra tossed her cards in and got up from the table. “I never have luck at this game,” she said. “It has been fun, but I will say good night and leave all of you to it.”

Then she was nodding her good nights and at the door before Leliana could say _wait_ or _stay_ or _your luck could turn_ , and anyway none of those were probably a good idea.

 

* * *

 

Back in the keep, still fuzzy from the wine Varric had kept pouring her, and restive at having lost too many hands to Isabela and her wit, Cassandra shrugged out of the cloak and threw herself down on her bed. She’d kept drawing knights and songs and angels, truth and mercy and roses and fortitude, and still not prevailing.

But now, _The Grand Game_ was there on the floor where she had left it. She would just read another chapter. Mademoiselle R___, or her creator, was as good as Varric at making her wonder what came next. And maybe she would learn something, although if twenty years in Orlais had not made her a Game-player, she doubted it.

Besides, the book said R___ was tiny (not tall), with long white-blonde hair (not red) and violet eyes (no one had violet eyes), and she’d lived a hundred years ago, under Mad Emperor Reville, so it had nothing to do with—

Being coy in her own thoughts was absurd; nothing to do with her idiotic feelings about Leliana. Except that of course it did.

Cassandra was objectively sure that in her mysterious bardic past, Leliana had not performed half-clothed to shock her rivals, or pushed court ladies to fight duels over her, or seduced them with immediately Chantry-banned compositions. And she would never have thought to picture any of this on her own, without the book, but there it was. She might as well see what would be next.

When she left off, R___ had been invited to a small party for the Duchesse of L___, presumably Lydes, and her friends. Cassandra picked up the book from where she had set it on its face and turned the page.

 _I felt the eyes of all the ladies on me as I played, as they tilted their heads and whispered_ , read the print across the top, above an engraving of the same, women in finely drawn ruffles and sinister-looking masks. _When I finished playing, the duchesse said, Ah! and clapped her hands in a rustling of silk. How the instrument must feel, she said to the others. Do you not envy it? Then she held out her hand to me, and said, I must know, lovely thing, and so I kissed her red lips below her mask; she applauded me again, and urged her companions to share in this as well, passing me from one to the next around the circle; and some raised the stake, opening their clothes, till I had tasted every one and offered myself up in return._

The narrative continued in this vein over several of the fragile pages and past two more illustrations, until the chapter ended with _And that was how I became a favorite of my masked lady of L___ , and received much notice of her thereafter._

Cassandra turned the book over, feeling mildly scandalized and warm.

 In her time in Orlesian courts, she’d dismissed rumors of this sort of thing as the overheated imaginings of underactive courtiers. But of course it would have been Leliana’s business to know all about it. Not that she had asked, or would, ever (she could hear the laugh she would get now, and Leliana would never drop it, either).

 Still, Leliana knew—and had done, perhaps, certainly—far more than she.

The thought gave her a guilty thrill, prickling down her back.

Maker take it, if this was a test, she was still failing it. Cassandra buried her face in the pillow and groaned to herself. She’d done so well for years not realizing. Leliana had her old friends. Even if she could ever rationalize it as acceptable for the Divine, blundering in where she wasn’t wanted was unthinkable.

She felt like a bear in a china shop, or a glassworks.

 

* * *

 

After Cassandra had gone, and after Aveline and Donnic and Merrill left together, yawning, Leliana played one last game with Varric and Isabela, which devolved into ever more creative rule-breaking and came close to a three-way tie before she won.

Varric feigned shock and said he’d had enough and the Maker was clearly taking sides. When Isabela made her a not-so-veiled invitation to stay longer, he countered with an offer to escort her back to the keep. “I know you can handle yourself, Nightingale, but Bianca’s good company in this city.”

Leliana thanked both of them, put on her cloak, and slipped out alone, instead.

With her head covered and Merrill’s notes under her arm, she climbed the long stair that cut through Lowtown and ended in the broad squares of Hightown, some buildings still dark and tumbledown, some freshly repaired with light in the windows and voices spilling out.

In the nighttime streets like this, moving fast and anonymously, with the wind at her back, she could have been the Leliana of half a lifetime ago: returning from a job to Marjolaine in one of her city houses, filled with the elation of youth and getting away with something, and what Marjolaine’s easy smile and “Very good, pretty thing” had done to her.

That voice still tied her up in remembered heat, even as she felt the blade in her side again and shuddered. She’d almost lost herself in it. And then again, hopelessly, for that year with Tamar who became Hero of Ferelden, who never meant to hurt her at all and didn’t know.

And so now she had walls and rules, and she had amusements but didn’t let them in too far, because trusting herself did not end well.

She shook her head. Maudlin. Whatever Isabela had been hinting at would have been more fun than this, and extremely inappropriate.

But here she was, already on the steps of the Viscount’s Keep, instead of back there.

She passed gates, night guards, more templars, doors. Glanced at Cassandra’s door, took a breath, went through her own and closed it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise this does actually get resolved, everyone.


	10. Waking Sea to Antiva

“Did you have a chance to read the notes?” Merrill asked when Leliana found her waiting in the keep hallway the next morning, arms full of books. “I brought these for more reference. May I come in? Your Holiness.”

Then she was through the door and spreading tomes across their table. “Thank you. Oh, good morning. Is it a good morning for you?” Dust puffed from one large volume as it fell open at a bookmark.

“Reasonably, I think,” Leliana said, smiling a little. “Even better if you tell me you can help us.” She leaned over the table and pulled the nearest book toward her. It was handwritten in what looked like old Tevene, arcane symbols and messy notations scrawled across the pages.

“Well, I don’t know how much practical help it will be, but I think I know what these ex-Venatori may be trying to do.”

“Oh, Maker be praised.” Leliana crossed back to the door and put her head out. “Elaine, no one comes in until I say.”

“Yes, Victoria.” The knight-captain put her armored fist to her chest and stepped in front of the doorway.

“So, the magisters in the old days of Kirkwall,” Merrill began, “were all very interested in the Veil, and the Fade, and the city.”

“The Black City, yes.” Leliana sat down on the edge of the seat across from her.

“And specifically in breaking it. The Veil, I mean. Just like Corypheus.” She paused. “Did you know I went with Hawke, when she woke him? We really thought we’d killed him.” Sadness swam into her eyes. “She wanted to finish it, didn’t she.”

Leliana put a hand on hers lightly, over the book. “I wasn’t there, but she was more than brave enough.”

Merrill closed her eyes for a moment. “Yes.” She opened them. “Thank you for letting me help, even if your Maker disapproves of me. I used to hear a lot of that from Sebastian, too.”

“I believe the Maker forgives,” Leliana said, “and I know nothing is ever simple.”

She smiled then, and flipped a page. “True. Well. All these ancient magisters drew on amounts and sources of power that I would call obscene.” She pointed to a diagram of some sort of machine sketched across two pages. “Slave blood, elves’ blood, any blood available.” It had spikes and wheels and channels, like a deconstructed torture chamber. Leliana tried to picture the grotesquerie it was designed for and then wished she had not.

“As they built in Kirkwall they added … touches … to make it easier. The city itself became a machine of a kind. It was all to help them succeed where the first ones had failed.”

“To become gods,” Leliana said. “Take the seat of the Maker.”

Merrill nodded. “A great many of them thought so. I don’t know if these mages now want that, but I believe they are using the same old blood magic rituals, and something like their own version of these machines to amplify power.” She turned another book to show a similar picture, and a third. “And they were first designed to tear the Veil.”

Leliana took a long breath and let it out slowly, denying the sinking feeling at _tear the Veil_ , the vision of all their work erased to be done again. “But no more of those magisters ever succeeded, did they?”

Merrill shook her head. “Not until the Breach.”

“And Corypheus had help,” she said to herself.

“Did he? From whom?” Merrill glanced up, green gaze sharpening in curiosity.

“Ah. Not my story to tell—”

She was saved then by the door opening behind her, and Cassandra’s voice. “We’ve had another visit from that cursed eagle.” She came to the table and threw down a paper in front of Leliana. “Good morning,” she said to Merrill, then turned back to her. “The bird-master came out to find me, as you were busy. This may actually be of use.”

The paper, unfolded, had another sketched map on one side, with several points marked.

“He says the creature ate one of his good sparrowhawks,” Cassandra went on. “I’d never have thought Calpernia had a taste for them. We owe him some kind of restitution—”

Merrill giggled under her breath, then retreated into paging through another dusty book, head bent over it.

“You should read some of this,” Leliana said, gesturing to the array of open books as she studied the message. “Merrill’s findings are very … I am not sure _illuminating_ is the word.”

“Yes? Tell me,” Cassandra said to Merrill, taking a chair. She must have come from training; her hair was damp and she smelled of soap. As she folded her legs under the table, her knee brushed Leliana’s and she pulled it back.

The little mage drew herself up and began her explanation again. Cassandra nodded and asked pointed questions. Leliana read the impatiently slanted lines in Calpernia’s writing on the other side of the paper, kept her knees to herself, and considered.

Assuming Calpernia’s directions to follow her on the mages’ trail were not the second phase of a multilayered trap, whomever the Inquisition sent would need them, and Merrill’s information, and everything else they had uncovered.

“Could you plan a counterattack?” Cassandra asked Merrill. “If you heard part of their ritual, for example?”

“Maybe?” Merrill said. “I would try.”

All Leliana’s instincts were pushing her to stay and help lead the hunt in person. So much could go wrong in their absence. It was a terrible time to cut her lines of communication. But the ship had to sail, and the rest of the Chantry expected both of them on it, in Antiva within a month, and in Ferelden in time for the All Souls’ Andraste pilgrimage.

Justinia would have sent them to do this in her place; they would have to trust someone else in theirs, much as it chafed.

Her name interrupted her train of thought. She looked up. “What?”

“I said, she should see the crystal.”

“I was going to show her myself. It’s where you left it.”

Cassandra pushed her chair out with a sharp scrape and went to uncover the reading device.

“A crystal?” Merrill asked, turning after her.

“A record of one attack.” She adjusted it and demonstrated the controls. “It may be hard to watch.”

Merrill was fascinated instantly, leaning toward it. “I’ve never seen such—thank you. Like this?” She turned the knob and made the blue glow rise and coalesce.

“A moment in the hall,” Leliana said in a lower voice, and nodded to the door. Cassandra followed her, leaving Merrill absorbed in the memory images.

“Most Holy,” Elaine said, moving briskly out of the way. “Templars, attention.” They all came out of the rest stance.

“At ease,” she said. “Talk among yourselves.” She touched Cassandra’s arm and stepped to one side.

“What is it?”

“The Inquisition will need to know all of this.” She held up Calpernia’s message. “We won’t be here then.”

Several expressions crossed Cassandra’s face, ending in the one that meant restraining herself from argument in front of the templars.

“I don’t much like it either,” Leliana said, “but Justinia would tell us to delegate.”

They traded long looks. Then Cassandra sighed and nodded shortly. “The mage has helped, I grant you.”

“We have to trust someone, and the Champion’s friends—”

“Did start all this. But I take your meaning.”

It was half a joke, and Leliana did give her a wry smile, turning back to the door.

Elaine caught her eye as she did. “Most Holy? Apologies.” She looked unsure. “I wanted to ask—will we be reassigned? When you go?”

“We would rather keep you,” Cassandra said, stepping up behind her. Then she paused. “Unless …”

Leliana saw her thought; it was suddenly obvious. “Would you care to stay in Kirkwall? As our trusted personal liaison to the Inquisition, temporarily, until this matter is finished.”

“And Knight-Divine would suit you more than knight-captain, when you return to us,” said Cassandra.

Elaine slowly flushed, and bowed speechlessly. The other templars kept quiet, but darted glances at their captain, smiling.

“Come in, then, for a briefing.” Leliana held the door and waved her ahead.

Inside, the final horrific scene from the crystal was playing out in front of Merrill, blue light eerily illuminating her face and the walls. Leliana saw a shimmer of tears in her eyes, but Merrill’s face was set and intent, her hand steady on the device.

Elaine moved to one side and folded her arms behind her, waiting for instruction, the pride on her face vying with discomfort. Leliana knew how she felt; although she’d watched the memory herself more than once, the sounds still put her on edge. Had Merrill known any of these Dalish? She hoped not, for her sake.

As Merrill began to turn it back to replay it, Leliana put a hand on her shoulder and she started. “Oh! I’m sorry, I was—”

“If you can make out anything of use in it, please do study it. Keep it with you. You should know, we have called on the Inquisition for aid, and I’m sure Lady Cadash will want to see all this.”

Merrill nodded, all focus again. “I do want to try.”

“We are leaving the knight-captain here to assist them and you in our absence. She’s helped fight these mages herself”—Leliana glanced at her—“quite valiantly.”

Elaine looked down and nodded.

“I can tell her what she needs to know,” Cassandra said. “Both of them. You have not left this room today, L—Victoria. Let me do this.”

“Aveline and Varric as well,” Leliana said, and she nodded. “Then I shall.”

It would be good to walk in the sun and banish the thought of Tevinter blood machines for a time. Besides, she needed to speak with the ship’s captain again about the manifest.

 

* * *

 

The _Cathaire_ was painted red and gold, with the banner of the Chantry flying far overhead above the full sails and triple decks: a handsome relic of an earlier time, fitted out for Beatrix originally, though Cassandra had never accompanied her to sea.

The cabins in the stern had small windows of diamond-paned glass, narrow beds hung on chains that swayed with the ship, carvings of Andraste’s travels in the paneling, and even inset bookcases with latching doors.

Someone had filled the shelves with her own books, rather presumptuously, and also packed two chests full of things from the wardrobes she hadn’t used in the new Cathedral rooms. Probably one of the same women hovering outside the door now. The grand clerics in Val Royeaux had sent another small troop of clerks and attendants, and they were attentive to a fault.

She’d spent the past hour undoing their work and then carefully replacing everything, and found no more poisoned needles or other devices. Outside, the sun was beating down on the water, dazzlingly hot; inside, it was stifling.

She was sure they were listening. As she considered whether or not to open the door for a cross-breeze and alert them, there was a knock. Leliana slipped in, closed it on the sisters outside before they could follow, and perched on her folding window seat.

“Sit,” she said, and then pitched her voice low enough not to carry. “Anything?”

Cassandra took the edge of the seat next to her and shook her head.

“I have been contemplating the nature of faith,” Leliana said in a normal tone. “How fragile it can be, no? Even though Our Lady told us that she who has unshaken faith shall know true peace.”

“True faith is rare as dragon feathers, I have heard it said.”

She chuckled genuinely at this. The corners of her eyes crinkled and the sun caught the red of her lashes. “Are there truly dragons with feathers?”

Cassandra shrugged. Leliana nudged her, and she cast about for a reply. “My uncle once showed me part of one in a stone,” she said finally. “Petrified by ancient mages, he told me.”

“This ship is as eaten up with informants as the Cathedral itself,” Leliana whispered when she paused. “I want to use them to our benefit, but it will take planning.”

“How?” Cassandra mouthed.

Leliana made an _I don’t know_ gesture with her hands. Then she added aloud, “Perhaps it was less rare in Our Lady’s time, then. Have you thought of a text for our sermon in Ostwick?”

“Something from Exaltations, perhaps? I will look it up.” She reached past Leliana’s head for her copy of the Chant of Light, and lowered her voice again. “You don’t know?”

“Not exactly. Time was short, and my agents are not magical,” Leliana said through her teeth. “As you should know by now.”

She paged through the book and kept her voice down. “A ship is still a very good place for convenient accidents.”

Leliana bent her head over it as well. “So, we continue watching each other’s backs. Meanwhile, I think we must begin by throwing out false leads I can trace.” She reached across Cassandra’s lap and turned a page herself. “I doubt anyone here can best you in a fight, or me.”

“I thank you for the vote of confidence,” Cassandra muttered, “but it does not give me more affection for boats.”

“You can swim, yes? So can I. We will keep our heads above water.” Then Leliana pointed to a verse and raised her voice. “Ah, what about the fifth verse? ‘Whatsoever passes through the fire is not lost.’ We must encourage the people to take heart.”

Cassandra gave a short nod and tucked the book under her arm, standing and resuming her normal voice. “Right now I would like air. Shall we work on it outside?”

The three sisters outside the door scattered when she opened it, curtsying and saying, “Most Holy.” They had rigged up a sunshade across one part of the quarterdeck above them, a white half-tent with low seats and cushions under it. It did look cooler than the stuffy cabins.

“Is there anything you require, Your Perfection?” asked Sister Nanette, the elder gray-haired clerk, still bent in her curtsy.

“Only this. Thank you.” Cassandra walked past her to the ladder.

“I would like paper and ink, please,” Leliana said to her, and all three of them bustled off to find it.

They were well out from Kirkwall by now; there was only sea in all directions, bright over dark green depths. The sky was cloudless, and a steady, warm, salt-smelling wind drove the ship on eastward and tugged at the edges of the tent and Cassandra’s sleeves. Above and below the quarterdeck, sailors clambered and hauled on ropes and called to each other.

When Nanette returned with the paper she’d asked for and an inkwell and pen on a little tray, Leliana settled on a cushion, crossing her legs, and began writing something. Cassandra reopened the Chant to the Canticle of Exaltations.

The sister stood for a little while, fidgeting with her habit—trying to catch a glimpse of Leliana’s work? Then she bobbed and turned to leave.

When she had gone, Leliana tore a strip from the sheet she was writing on and passed it to Cassandra.

_Bring up Celene’s invitation_ , it read.

She folded it into her hand, and, referring to Exaltations 1, made some further suggestions for the Ostwick speech, which Leliana incorporated into her notes.

When the attending sisters came again, this time bearing iced wine and fruit, Cassandra said, “We accepted the invitation to Halamshiral for Satinalia, then?”

“Yes,” Leliana said, taking a cup and nodding to Sister Nadine, who was the youngest, barely out of her teens. “Ice, how lovely! You must have some if you wish.” Nadine blushed and nodded, pouring a little for herself and sipping it. Cassandra noted that she did not hesitate to drink.

“Celene may announce the new tax for reconstruction,” Leliana went on casually, as if there really was such a thing. “Anyone who can afford to import luxuries into Orlais these days can afford to support the Maker’s work.”

“She does owe us a great debt.”

“She will not forget,” Leliana said, “although neither will anyone else.”

Nadine finished the wine and scurried away.

“Speaking of the Winter Palace,” she said after a moment, bending over the paper again, “last I heard, they were all fluttering about how the Comtesse of Deauvin was caught with a singer in a compromising position against a garden trellis. Which would be nothing, except ...”

Cassandra could see the parting of her hair over the back of her neck as she leaned forward, and the way it curled slightly there. She had an ink smudge on one hand. Condensation collected on the cup and clung to her fingers when she drank again.

The major players were unfamiliar, but the imperial court’s nonsense was perennial, unsurprisingly.

Leliana glanced back over her shoulder and stopped her story, amusement entering her voice. “Your face! Cassandra, just tell me, ‘No palace gossip; I will never even pretend to care.’”

“It is not that. I will never understand Orlesians. Why did she not accept the duel?”

By the time the sun began to touch the sea in the west, Leliana had finished detailing the comtesse’s tangled motivations, which involved the singer’s other lover being a chevalier whom the comte was making a play to recruit, and the implications of declining a challenge versus sacrificing a champion, and the levels of face she was losing for either choice, and other things that were more interesting in her telling than in practice.

Somehow, in between, they had also written the benediction and the sermon for Ostwick, and Cassandra was holding three more cryptic notes about things to mention in front of possible informers.

The captain and crew gathered on deck for sunset devotions, along with all of the Cathedral sisters and the small squad of Elaine’s templars they had brought from Kirkwall. Taking her turn to lead them, Cassandra stood by the rail, thought of Justinia and Beatrix, and made her best effort to string words together in a way that did not shame the Maker.

While they all knelt with bowed heads, she glanced at Leliana’s writing on the strips of paper in her hand again, committed it to memory, then dropped them over the side to vanish in the foam.

 

* * *

 

The day the _Cathaire_ anchored in Ostwick was very different from their previous chantry visits. Everything was thought of before they could bring it up, and they were escorted through the plan with many reassurances of safety and no effort on their part. Cassandra did not like it.

When the sisters came into her cabin to help dress her in the new vestments brought from the Cathedral, she felt like a child with her nurses again, raising her arms and waiting for buttons to be buttoned and layers to be put over her head. Not so different from being armed by squires, she told herself; except that armor was useful. These last weeks had brought her around to some of Leliana’s feelings about tradition.

Once robed, they rode from the dock to the chantry amid their own guard and an honor guard from the old Ostwick Circle. Inside, they delivered their sermon on Exaltations 5 and gave the Maker’s blessing to an unruly and whispering crowd. Outside, the chantry was surrounded by what had to be every remaining templar from that Circle on high alert.

Ostwick’s revered mother took them aside after the ceremony to make a point of saying she and the city were on their side, despite whatever scurrilous lies the Starkhaveners were spreading. She also passed on another dispatch case full of messages for them, which Leliana took in her own hands and did not allow the attendants to carry.

All in all, it was worrying. The Exalted March were fools led by cowards, but their influence was creeping up too fast.

Back aboard ship, they shed the over-warm headdresses and outer layers and went through the case in Leliana’s cabin.

First, a stiffly formal report from Elaine and a more breezy one from Varric with a postscript from Merrill, all optimistic about the Inquisition soldiers’ progress in hunting the rogue Venatori, who they said were on the run. They had also forwarded an angry note delivered by Calpernia’s bird, enumerating a long list of things she believed the Inquisition was doing wrong, and finishing with the Venatori’s current position.

There had been no more attacks yet, thank the Maker. The remains of that village and the sounds in that crystal figured in too many of her bad dreams lately. She itched to be riding in the vanguard beside Ida and feel the visceral assurance that they had fallen. It felt wrong to sit back in relative luxury while others fought for what she’d promised those children.

Cassandra put her head down and ran a hand through her hair, tugging at her braid. Leliana noticed her frown. “It is hard not to be there, I know.” She reached out and then took the reports back. “Good news from Josie, though.” She waved a stack of pages. “She liked the shoes, though she says they were unnecessary and is already preparing to host us and the mages in Harvestmere.”

Well, that was something. And at the bottom of the case was a letter under an elaborate new seal that faintly glowed with magic and used no Chantry iconography, signed by Enchanters Vivienne, Fiona, and the other leaders of the free Circle of Magi, jointly accepting their preliminary invitation. _I should so like to see Skyhold in the autumn again_ _,_ Vivienne wrote, _and I am sure we and Your twice-Perfection can come to a suitable agreement as to the rules of this proceeding, for the safety of all._

When she read this, Leliana groaned. “Madame de Fer will not make this easy either, will she? But I suppose the Chantry has not earned that, yet. I will reply and hammer it out with her.”

“Vivienne should know the Inquisitor would not allow any harm to them. Not that I am suggesting—”

There was a knock at the door, firmer than the sisters’ tentative rappings.

“Come,” Leliana said, sweeping the letters back into the case.

It was Knight-Captain Mireille, a graying but robust woman who had served longer as ship’s captain than in the templar ranks. “Most Holy, if I may report?” She bowed elegantly. “We are back on course and the wind is good. Maker willing, we should make the port of Hercinia in five days for supplies.”

“That’s excellent news, Captain,” Leliana said, standing. “Carry on.”

When she had returned to the wheel, Cassandra said, “I want to review the plans for the rest of the visits. I will not be managed by these clerks and led around by the nose.”

“Indeed.” Leliana lowered her voice. “And whoever is trying to pull strings would, it seems, like one or both of us to possibly die or step down or just stay out of their way—but they can’t decide, like newcomers to the Game who have no plan.”

“The Cathedral is full of newcomers, after the war.”

“Or they started with a plan, overstepped and lost control, and are scrambling for a new one. Either way, they are not moving rationally.” She locked the sensitive letters in a chest, arranged a few half-written, unsealed responses on a shelf with her writing materials, and latched the glass door before they slid out. “Decoys,” she murmured, seeing Cassandra’s questioning look.

Then she took a fat gilded book down from another shelf. “Speaking of strings,” she said. “I found this when we boarded. An impressively backhanded gift from Grand Cleric Victoire.” It was a new edition of _The Lives of the Divines_ , Brother Wilbert of Montfort’s popular didactic history. “Shall I read outside and enlighten us all? Or possibly bore us to death.”

Cassandra stood, ducking the lamp that swung toward her head with a sway of the deck. “Why not. I will risk it.”

 

* * *

 

In the early evening, the wind died down, and the ship’s activity slowed with it, leaving everything hot, sluggish, and lethargic. Leliana read from _The Lives of the Divines_ , adding her own commentary now and then, and they dropped a few references to her false leads into their conversation after others gathered to listen.

After the sunset prayer, one of the attendants stood at the edge of the tent—Sister Ninon, she thought, the round freckled one—curtsied, and waited for a pause in the story. When Cassandra gestured to her to speak, she said in a piping voice, “Pardon me, Most Holy,” bowing her head to both of them. “Are either of you too warm?”

“Why?”

“The air is quite oppressive. Divine Beatrix, Our Lady keep her, sometimes suffered in the heat and required fanning. We would—”

“No,” Cassandra said with mild horror. “Go occupy yourself _usefully_ somewhere, for the Maker’s sake.” Then, belatedly recognizing her harshness, she added, “But thank you.”

The sister gave a hesitant smile, picked up her skirts, and took careful steps back down to where she had sat.

Leliana looked up from the book and stopped hiding a grin. “You really must have been awful at nobility.”

“No one and nothing in my uncle’s house ever offered to fan me. Thank the Maker and all His creation.”

“I might have let her.” Leliana fanned herself with the pages. “Maker, let the wind come back soon.” She leaned back against the cushions and sighed. “Where was I?”

“Theodosia II.”

“Oh, yes. Brother Wilbert seems very cross about her, but the poor woman had the worst luck. If the story is not a later invention, that is. Breaking her vow is one thing, but giving birth on the steps of the Cathedral, really?”

“At least that is a danger we need not be concerned with. Unless there is something you’re not telling me.”

She tipped her head farther back and laughed in the unrestrained way Cassandra was uncomfortably aware of liking too much, and shut the book. “Brother Wilbert is tedious.”

There was an easy silence. The voices of the crew, free from work until the wind returned, drifted up through the sticky air.

“Remember the trip from Kirkwall with Varric?” Leliana said after a moment. “How many times did he beat you at Wicked Grace?”

Cassandra shrugged. “I have lost count.”

“I could play two-handed with you and show you why you lost the other night.”

She had been relatively successful at not thinking about that night since it ended and she woke up with a headache. Still, heat and lassitude pressed down on her, and she wanted to stay where she was. “I lost because the game belonged to you and Admiral Isabela,” she said. “But, by all means.”

Leliana got to her feet and waved the sister back. “Ninon, please take this back to my cabin and find the deck of cards, in the box, right on the shelf next to my writing things.” Also an excuse to test her with the false letters, then. Never just one thing.

Ninon bowed to Leliana, took the book, and disappeared into the deepening shadows under the sails.

Leliana lit the lantern that hung from a rope overhead, then sat on her heels and began clearing a space on the carpet under them.

“You cannot play it like a frontal assault,” she said. “It’s about finding ways around the obstacles, and keeping secrets until the right time.”

Cassandra shifted herself out of her chair and sat on the other side of the space, folding her legs under her. “I know that is how you play.”

Ninon came back with the cards, in a sweet-smelling carved wooden box. She opened it and cut the deck onto the carpet. “An old gift from Zevran Arainai, of the Crows,” she said, looking up. “It is lovely workmanship, no? That was a distraction. Pay attention to my hands, not what I say. Josie always wins that way.”

They were fast and exact and ran through the shuffle in a blur. She dealt three cards to Cassandra and three to herself. “I know you have three swords. Convince me you don’t.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Cassandra said, glancing at the cards and keeping her face straight. “Describe one to me.”

Leliana laughed at her again with aggravating charm. She concentrated on the cards and the straight face. Three swords, blood and chains and victory; so she only needed another.

“Look again. I had a bad hand, so I just took another card while you were looking down. Isabela did this constantly. See?” Her fingers barely seemed to touch the deck before she was holding five cards.

“Another ploy is to hide away the angel of death”—she did something with the same hand and the fifth card vanished—“until I want to end the round.”

They played, or really she played and watched Leliana bend the cards to do her bidding in some variety of unmagical sorcery, until the lamp ran low and it was too dark to see them. She won once, but suspected she was being humored.

Afterwards, when she’d locked the door and window from the inside and set out a blade within reach of the hanging bed, she knelt in the stale closeness of her cabin and meditated on Divine Theodosia II and her bad luck.

The symbolic marriage to the Maker had been interpreted in looser and stricter ways over the ages, like any doctrine, and was less emphasized today than in the past. But she couldn’t convince herself that what she wanted did not bend her vows at least, and breaking them would be like breaking herself. She’d made this choice preemptively before, walking away from Galyan; that high road was so familiar she’d worn ruts in it. Or lack of them, rather, she thought with a twist of a smile.

If she slipped, it was a long fall that almost certainly still ended on Theodosia’s path to disgrace. It was best not to look down. The reasons hadn’t changed.

And none of these contortions of self-denial meant anything, since Leliana was not going to come to her and give her the chance, anyway.

 

* * *

 

The wind picked up again during the night, and the next day, they were once again briskly moving east. Cassandra decided she couldn’t stand to sit idle for the entire voyage, and spent the morning chivying the crew into clearing a space for her and giving her something to hit.

Balance was more of a challenge as the high deck pitched with the ship. Eventually she mastered the footing enough to begin her usual routine, but the back of her neck kept prickling disconcertingly. She stopped and looked back at Leliana, who was writing in the shade of the tent. “Well, what do you want?”

“What? Nothing.”

She made another cut at the rope-covered piece of yardarm they had brought up. The blade struck at the wrong angle and vibrated back into her hand, wrenching her wrist.

“I cannot concentrate properly being stared at. It makes my skin crawl.”

“It could be the crew up in the lines,” Leliana said, not looking up from her work. “Maybe you should go scare them off again.”

Cassandra snorted and went back to hitting the post.

She was annoyed that part of her had liked the idea of her looking, and sentenced herself to fifty repetitions of her least favorite sword form, the fussy and ugly Seleny cross.

When she finished, properly warm and free of tension, she started down to the lower deck to wash in the sea as the templars did.

As she passed, Leliana said, “Look at this,” clicking her tongue in irritation. “How can they have lost him?” When Cassandra stopped, she pushed a message slip at her and then seemed to realize it was in code. “Speaking of foolishness, I should have taught you this cipher long ago. It’s silly to keep it to myself now.”

“In a moment. Right now I am going for a swim off the side. Though it may offend someone’s delicate sensibilities.”

She pressed her lips together in one of her unreadable faces. “Well, good luck,” she said after a second, nodding. “I will be up here.”

Belowdecks, when he saw Cassandra, the first mate dropped to his knees and ordered the sailors not sleeping to do the same. She announced that she wanted a swim, and he offered to have the ship’s boat lowered. When she said a rope ladder would be enough, he sent five men to throw it over the side and hold it for her.

The sea was choppy, and when she slid off the last rung, the water rushed in cold through her clothes and nearly knocked the breath out of her. Salt stung every tiny scrape and crack on her hands and feet. She ducked under and rubbed her hair, then surfaced and swam alongside the ship for a little while, holding the ladder and fighting the waves until she felt cleaner and too tired to continue.

At the top, she found all of the sisters from the Cathedral gathered and offering towels and dry clothes. They faced away in a wall of red around her while she changed, which was helpful, she had to admit. She wedged her wet feet back into her boots and climbed the rest of the way back to the quarterdeck, still tasting the bite of the salt.

“I thought you might want dry things if you succeeded,” Leliana said when she got there. “How was the sea, then?”

“Bracing.” Cassandra lowered herself onto a cushion and reached for Leliana’s writing board. “Now I can think about this code of yours.”

“Well, I am not teaching it to everyone here. Inside?”

Once they were behind a closed door again, she drew a series of diagrams for Cassandra and explained briefly what to do with them and the words. “Burn that once you have it by heart,” she said. “As I say to all the agents. The keys change, too.” Then she handed over the message in question. “When you’ve read it, find me.”

Leliana left her in the cabin to puzzle it out. The cipher was clever but easy to memorize, as it would have to be, and the key was an amusing verse from an obscure song, which was like her. The content, however, did not amuse.

The gist of it was that a few spies had made it to Starkhaven from Kirkwall weeks ago, but soon after they arrived, the prince and several prominent nobles, along with the local leaders of the Exalted March and their inner circle of acolytes, had disappeared from the city. The writer assured the Nightingale they were doing all they could to trace them, in terms as apologetic as the length allowed.

“Does this mean he is behind it?” she asked Leliana, finding her walking along the rail outside and falling into step with her. “I did not want to believe that of him.”

“It is insupportable of them to lose him, whether he is or not.” Leliana looked out across the water to the north, frustration creeping into her voice now. “And it arrived so late! I can do nothing here except pray that the Maker blesses them with competence.”

If it broke her surface sang-froid, she had to be very bothered. “Send for others,” Cassandra said. “You have done more from farther away.”

“They may already have found him,” she said, “I hope, or he may be out of reach now.” She sighed. “But, yes.”

“Zealots do not want to disappear. We will see them again.”

“I am not sure that’s reassuring.” Nevertheless, she sounded less annoyed.

It was nearly time for the noon prayer; the captain was calling the crew down. Leliana took a breath and visibly calmed her face before descending amidships to lead it.

As Cassandra crossed back toward the stern, she thought about asking someone to bring up more of the cakes Leliana had liked the other day. As she was weighing whether those or the ices would cheer her, she noticed a flash of red outside the covered cage-box for the messenger birds, and one flapped into the sky and vanished.

She quieted her steps and circled the cage, only to almost collide with Nadine, the youngest sister, pulling her hands out of the door.

“Most Holy!” Nadine dropped to one knee, her voice squeaking. “I was … sending it for …”

“For Victoria?” she said, giving the girl a name to seize on. “Get up, it is all right.”

Nadine nodded vigorously, not looking up. “I’ll go right down now. I’m sorry.”

“Go on,” Cassandra said, and she went, scurrying on the rolling deck and down through the closest hatch.

Leliana needed a less distant problem to worry at, and Nadine’s lie would perk her up more than sweets.

 

* * *

 

After Cassandra described how Sister Nadine had released a bird in secret, Leliana kept a closer watch on the girl. She asked for her help in trivial things, praised her, and dropped certain comments where she would hear. It was the same routine she’d followed when there were suspected spies among Justinia’s attendants, but contained within the tight space of the ship, and with no immediate results.

Her work was about waiting, yet the wait between ports tested her patience. She could only send messages and drop hints blindly. At Hercinia and then Wycome, the new bundles of official correspondence were like water in the Hissing Wastes.

Her efforts bore some fruit: she learned that the estates of the Comte de Brousse and Marquis de Celestine had sold off inventory of precious metals and jewels for weapons and foodstuffs, and that Grand Cleric Triana’s sister in the Dales had liquidated her shares in a silk-trading concern. She heard of several agents who had infiltrated Exalted March circles in northern Orlais, but not from anyone who had seen the missing Starkhaven leaders.

It would have been better to take Prince Sebastian before he slipped through their fingers, after all, and now he was lost thanks to her moment of sentimentality. Well, maybe not lost; she didn’t know that yet. Leliana sighed to herself and turned a page of the report she was rereading.

While she waited, at least she could force the useless time to pass a little faster with books and cards and making Cassandra listen to stories she didn’t care about.

Although, perhaps because she was just as bored and penned in by the sea, Cassandra had been showing more interest in the entanglements and details of spywork. She absorbed the agents’ cipher easily, and started going through their messages on her own and making points Leliana would not have thought of. She had the tenacity and discernment to be good at the Game if she would ever take it seriously. Lying she might not do well, but seeing through it, yes.

Right now, she was sitting straight-backed on the other side of the carved folding table under the tent, drinking dubious-quality cold tea from the ship’s stores and sorting out which matters they could hand over to the clerks to answer.

“And what is this one?” She held up a letter on fine red-edged paper.

“Oh, that. From the Grande Royeaux Theater. I told you, if the public wants sensational tales, we can give them better ones.”

Cassandra looked up at the sky. “If you must sponsor such drivel, at least some of it should be about yourself.”

“All my exploits are classified,” she said. “You know that. For the Divine’s eyes only.”

“They do not all need to be.” She paused. “Or else, it is no secret that you traveled with the Hero of Ferelden. And you must have stories from before that.”

She didn’t talk about her life before the Blight, beyond a few carefully crafted anecdotes, and she didn’t remember Cassandra ever asking before. “Oh, yes,” she said easily, “but I doubt the Maker would be served by those plays.”

The included broadside of her as a young Seeker sneering at a dragon was, to be fair, well past the point of ridiculous. Cassandra unfolded it in front of herself. “Surely He would wish us to share this honor.” She looked down her nose, imitating its expression so well that Leliana laughed out loud. “And I do not know why they all insist on dressing me that way. Tell them to change it.”

After Leliana nodded, she went on, “If I have to see the Ten-Year Gathering again, you can commission a new Fifth Blight tale. Call it _The Warden and the Nightingale_ , or something of the kind.” She took a drink of tea.

It was true that thinking about the Wardens and that year only hurt now because she missed her friends. And she had kept herself out of most of the past retellings. “I am almost convinced.”

“There could be singing.”

She laughed again. “That’s it. I will be forced to, now.”

“There is no reason the people should not love you,” Cassandra said, refolding the sheet and sharply creasing the edges. “If you do not, I will.”

Leliana refused to let herself respond to this and changed the subject. “Speaking of old friends of mine.” She picked up another letter sealed with a crow flying to the right. “One of them may meet us in Antiva. I am hoping he can make himself useful.”

After the sorting was done, Leliana lay back in one of the chairs and looked out at the sea. White clouds moved slowly above the sails, and some large fish broke the water in the distance. Cassandra stayed where she was, practicing the cipher on scraps of paper.

Within a few minutes, Sister Nanette came up behind her and asked, “Most Holy, do you need anything?” It was the fourth time one of them had done it that afternoon.

Cassandra gave a sigh and covered her work. “All right. A book from my cabin. Whichever is closest. But that is all.”

Nanette hurried away, and she went back to her practice. When the sister returned with a small book and set it beside her, she nodded absently but didn’t look up.

“Is this one of your heroic love stories?” Leliana sat up, reached for it, and opened it to the title page. “ _The Grand Game_. I am intrigued.”

Cassandra’s head stayed down, but her pen scratched louder and the tips of her ears colored. “I did not think she would bring that one.”

More interesting. Leliana began to skim-read the delicate print. The book was antique, predating the new dwarven production methods, and had lovely illustrations, but it quickly became clear that no real bard had come near it.

And after she passed three different seductions in quick succession, Cassandra’s reaction made more sense.

“In my experience, bardcraft tends to involve more stabbing and less … stabbing,” she said, glancing over to see how much pinker her ears got. “Though they may have been more civilized about it in the Blessed Age.”

Cassandra kept writing and didn’t look back at her, but her shoulders shifted a little as if she’d laughed.

Leliana slid down on her cushion, flipped farther in, and read some more. “And using your own servants as spies is far too obvious. Amateur.”

“It is silly, but entertaining,” Cassandra said eventually, still not turning around. “I have nearly finished it.”

She was right; it only followed Leliana’s experience in the sketchiest way, but despite that, or maybe because of it, she found herself slowing down and wanting to see where it would go next.

“I will say, her assignation with the grand cleric behind the statue of Andraste in the Cathedral is impressive,” she remarked some time later. “Is there even enough room back there?”

As she said it, looking at Cassandra’s back, her mind filled in the details: the statue was forty feet high, and its bronze skirts could hide a multitude of things. The metal would be warm from the eternal flame, or the wall would be cold. Breathing incense smoke and dust and what she might taste like, the awkward angles of her fitting into the tight space—

Leliana shook her head and firmly turned past the rest of that scene, but she added aloud, “I am claiming this now. I’m quite entertained.”

“Go ahead.” Cassandra got to her feet. “There is a treatise on dragons I have been meaning to read.”

She left the shade of the canopy, heading for the ladder.

After she’d gone, a gust of wind fluttered the scraps she’d abandoned, and Leliana reached out to keep them from blowing away.

The symbols were dark and even and in neat square rows. Apparently she had been enciphering her favorite parts of the Chant; they were all verses from Trials, which Cassandra loved best. _You have walked beside me down the paths, You have stood with me when all others have forsaken me, Nothing can break me except Your absence_ , and so on.

The last one was _We are Yours, and none shall stand before us_ , crossed out and rewritten several times until the code was perfect. Leliana felt a brief mad impulse to hold on to it. She put the others under the table leg and stuck it into the book to mark her place instead.

* * *

The ship turned north after Wycome and entered Rialto Bay, stopping at Bastion and Salle for supplies. News from Orlais was scanty and slow, and would be so until they finished rounding the peninsula toward the capital.

The days and the water grew warmer, with more frequent rain that drove them into the cabins. Leliana spent several of those days on her hammock-bed absorbed in _The Grand Game_ and had to take Cassandra’s “I told you so” with grace.

At Rialto, one of Elaine’s templars brought back a new Exalted March tract that laid into her personally for consorting with thieves and known blood mages, and went into luridly inaccurate detail about her past sinful ways. Cassandra was less amused by it than she was, and wanted to ride out and track down the source, but they had no time.

Also at Rialto, an Antivan navy escort armed with catapults and soldiers joined them, to protect the ship from pirates, they said, but oddly, they saw none from there to Antiva City. She joked that Isabela had called them off, which might have been true.

Either way, the last few days were easy sailing over a clear blue-green sea; a pod of dolphins followed them all afternoon one day and jumped for fish the sailors threw, to Leliana’s delight.

Then, the _Cathaire_ and her escort reached the boundary waters of Antiva City, and a host of little boats came out to officially receive her and tow her into the harbor.

On land, they were met by a delegation of grandly dressed Antivans, among them the king’s chancellor and, more importantly, Prince Ezio Valisti, not-so-secret Third Talon of the Crows. After he gave the traditional oath of hospitality when Leliana greeted him, she breathed easier; their support had not been guaranteed, but removed a host of potential worries.

Antiva’s capital was beautiful at this time of year: bright flowers climbing everywhere, color on every wall, and the pervasive smell of salt air. They rode in procession up the Boulevard of the Seas with its tiles that reflected the bay, under the great statue of Queen Asha, and into the Palace of the Kings, rebuilt by Orlesian and dwarven architects after the Fourth Blight.

King Fulgeno received them in his throne room and asked their blessing and intercession for his house and kingdom, which they granted as custom required. After the formalities, the chancellor led them through the palace’s maze of guest chambers, all reserved for their little retinue. Cassandra questioned him about their defenses and made him show her the various guard posts, even though the Crows would be ultimately and invisibly responsible for their safety or lack of it.

They spent the next day consulting with Antiva’s grand cleric. After that the real business began, with a ball at the Montilyet estate just outside the city proper. Josephine’s family was proud of their connections to the Inquisition and the Sunburst Throne; no doubt Yves Montilyet wanted to both honor them and capitalize on it among the princes, and Leliana was willing to play along.

The sisters who dressed her that night brought out a gown she had not seen before, like a refined version of the ritual vestments with Antivan touches, slim and white with a high collar and a red silk surcoat. Josie would have been delighted.

When she came out, she saw that they had found something fitting for Cassandra as well, in mirroring black and red and without skirts, which probably pleased her.

But then she said, “I imagine formal armor for the Divine would be going too far,” looking down at it wistfully.

“I don’t know,” Leliana said. “It is hard to argue with the precedent of Andraste herself, no? But failing that, I think they chose well.”

“And for you.” She walked to the door, and the templars flanking it snapped to attention. “But let’s get this done with.”

“We must be last to arrive,” Leliana said. “The company should wait for us, not vice versa.”

When they did arrive, the moons were shining over the Montilyets’ great house, set back against the shore with vineyards all around. The ballroom was in the ornate Orlesian-influenced style of the last century, with the musicians in front of a wall of windows leading to a balcony over the sea. A dais was set up beside them, like the ones where she had attended Justinia on many a similar night, except that it had two chairs.

When the herald announced them at the entrance, the music ceased and everyone in the room gradually turned and knelt in a hush and rustle of clothing, as if they were at an audience in the Cathedral.

After they took their seats, a murmuring surge of sound followed as the guests stood again, and many stares, both blatant and covert, impressed and shocked.

Lord Montilyet was at the front with three of Josephine’s siblings, and he came forward to give them his personal welcome. When Leliana asked them all to come up beside her, they were hesitant, but eventually she persuaded them to sit and talk, and introduced each of them to Cassandra.

Yvette, who had met them both before, was full of chatter once she adjusted, about the hardships of sea travel, the upcoming All Souls’ Day solemnities, the music, the sweets, and who out on the floor danced better. When the music crescendoed to finish the present dance, she noticed Leliana tapping her toes. “My sister has said you are fond of dancing, Most Holy?”

“It is one of the Maker’s pure joys in life, I’ve always thought. I would not give it up.”

“Please don’t on our account!” said Josie’s little brother Laurien, grinning.

“It would be a surpassing credit to my house to have Your Holinesses grace my dance floor,” said Yves Montilyet, with a small polite reverence toward them. “I believe the grande pavane is next.”

She hadn’t meant to put Cassandra on the spot as well with her remark, but he was looking at both of them and beaming in such a kindly way.

They glanced at each other. She was trying to invent an excuse that would be gracious enough for Josie’s father when Cassandra sighed almost imperceptibly, got to her feet, held out her hand, and said, “Well, then, Victoria?”

Well, she had started it and the easiest way out was through.

As they walked out across the patterned marble tiles, a space formed around them. The hum of voices in the ballroom stilled again and then rose louder, and other guests began looking for partners and hurrying to line up.

“Follow me if you don’t know the steps,” she said.

“I would not have come if I did not,” Cassandra said as the first strains of the music began, tabors and pipes and drums. “My uncle hired a demon of a governess. Or several.” She glanced down at Leliana’s feet. “I stepped on their toes. I will try to avoid yours.”

Amusement at this image took her through the beginning of the first figure: side by side, they took hands and stepped right and left, forward and back at a stately pace with the set behind them. Then Cassandra turned to face her, and they advanced toward each other under their raised arms and retreated.

She had always thought the pavane very tame and sedate. Lord Montilyet and Yvette had come up beside them in the set. Divine Justinia had even danced it on occasion. Everything was above reproach. And yet.

It was an effort to slow herself to the beat of the great drum, to school her feet to move no faster. Turn, as if caught in mud or honey. Advance, retreat, turn again, with the beat, slowly. Face each other, face away, right and left.

As the dance stretched out the time, she became more and more aware that they had never touched each other in such a sustained and intentional way for so long, at least away from battlefields and fighting and the demands of survival.

Cassandra’s hands without gloves were crossed with the marks of her training, rough lines that Leliana could feel when their fingers laced, and graceful in the same direct, economical way as the rest of her.

She was good enough at this, for all the judgmental standing she usually did at balls, and Leliana knew she was feeling smug about it; it showed in her eyes when they faced each other. That made her want to laugh again, until Cassandra caught her coming out of a turn with a quick bracing touch at her back and she was suddenly too conscious of the thin silk of the new gown for one, two, three, four beats, until the end of the figure.

They were facing ahead at arm’s length once more. She glanced to her left; Yvette was craning her neck past her father to see, and there were more eyes beyond her, curious and awestruck and suspicious. The drum swept them all forward as the tabors wove around it, a march almost up to the wall of windows, then away, retracing.

In the next turn, Cassandra’s palm slid up hers to lie flat against it for an allemande, four more long steps around, like a forced lingering that she wanted and she didn’t.

It was all rather more than she’d expected to deal with tonight, before the real purpose of the night had even started. She thought she was keeping her calm face on, but only just.

At last there was a faster series of figures ending in a spin, and then the music ended in a drawn-out final note, releasing them. The ballroom and their feet came to a stop.

Cassandra reached for her face, then frowned and put both hands behind her back. “Your hair is in your eyes.”

For an instant she’d expected—she didn’t know what. Leliana pushed the strand of hair behind her ear herself and took refuge in teasing her. “And you pretend to be bad at this. I should make you dance more often. Look how enchanted they are.”

“I do not _pretend_ anything. My fault is in taking it too lightly or not enough, I think.” She turned toward the dais and half-smiled. “Go and dance with the bankers and enchant them. I will hold down this chair like Justinia. Maybe I will hear something.”

Leliana stood in the center of the floor, a solitary red-and-white figure amid the milling nobles in their rich colors, feeling stirred up and scattered and undignified. She had to collect herself.

As she took a breath, studying the painted sky on the ceiling, a man came and knelt in front of her: Lord Benito Otranto, of one of the first-rank mercantile families. “Your Holiness,” he said, looking at the floor, “will you dance again, and if so, might I serve you as partner for the corrento?”

She pulled her thoughts together, along with the cool bearing of Divine Victoria, as she looked down at him. Bold, and likely for a reason. If he chose to show his piety by investing in Chantry reconstruction, others would follow.

She accepted his offer with a quip. Otranto responded with a courtier’s laugh and gave her a white-gloved hand.

The corrento with him, and then she granted a sarabande to Princess Giuvana Campana, and a passacaglia with Ezio Valisti that became a skirmish of wit, and all the while the back of her mind was aware of Cassandra’s upright dark figure in the tall chair across the room, possibly watching her, and her eyes found it every time she turned.

By the end of the night, she had started a competition between nobles to offer the most assurances of faith and support, had traded stories of Josephine with her father and a few friends, had danced with Yvette and left her endearingly speechless, and had still not managed to shake it.

 

* * *

 

Later, back in the Palace of the Kings, a light rain fell outside the shuttered, glassless windows, and the warm humidity of it suffused the room.

She lit the lamp on the desk and sat down.

“Most Holy Victoria,” said a familiar Antivan voice at one window, “First of Your Name, Voice of the Prophet, Left Hand of the Maker.” Zevran pushed the shutter in and his bedraggled head followed. “May I? It’s very wet out here.”

Leliana set down her pen. “Always such dramatic entrances.”

He climbed the rest of the way through the window. “One should do things with panache. Many thanks, Your Perfection.”

When he reached her he knelt, dripping on the layered carpets, and kissed her hand. “Andraste bless you, my son,” she said, waving him to get up. “Now, say you’re here to help me.”

“I would say you are doing well enough.” He let go her hand and raised an eyebrow. “I had some business at the Montilyet ball earlier this evening. I never doubted your taste.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she lied.

He counted on his fingers. “Most Holy Valeria, First of Her Name, Right Hand of the Maker, Sword of the Prophet, Hero of Orlais … she is leading you in titles—”

“And?” she cut him off.

“I merely wish to congratulate you,” he said. “Anyone could see you are well matched.”

“We work well together.”

“I’m sure.”

“In the Maker’s service.” Leliana gave him one of her better chilly stares, then went to the sideboard and brought him a towel.

"Ah. Well, that is a shame,” Zevran said, unfazed, “what with the way she looks at you.” He took a chair and began drying his face. “But if you are not, perhaps I will introduce myself.”

Her laugh was abrupt and almost all surprise. She jumped over the first thing to the easy sardonic reply. “Do. I’d like to be there for that.”

“I am sure my very soul would be on the line, but could it be worth it?”

Zevran had no special powers of observation that went beyond hers. He could not really have seen anything, or be serious; he never was. She compartmentalized it away from the matter at hand.

“You are ridiculous, and she would have no idea what to do with you.” Leliana turned back to the desk and picked up the wine decanter. “But I need someone I trust with your particular talents in Orlais, if you can travel.” She lifted it toward him.

“Please.” He nodded, and she poured for them. “The Crows are happy enough with you here, but not so much with me. I am due for some time away.”

“When did you see Val Royeaux last? I want some hunting done.”

“It has been too long.” He drank. “This is excellent, by the way. And the quarry?”

“The clerics supporting this Exalted March … schism.”

“Intriguing. I have seen their work, of course.” Zevran leaned forward. “In the Free Marches it seems everywhere. The Chantry is funding it?”

“Only a few, and not for long. I need them run to ground. We will pay your usual.”

“No, no. Well, perhaps expenses.” He paused. “Are they to be removed?”

Leliana shook her head. “Not until I know who they are.” She passed him a packet she had prepared with encoded notes on everything they had uncovered during the voyage.

Zevran began to flip through the pages. “I will do whatever I can to help, as a friend and a good Andrastian.”

Leliana sat back, drank from her own cup, and watched him read.

“I hear it is rumored that Divine Valeria likes tales of romance,” he said after a moment, glancing up. “If I were considering … offering her my service, let us say, I might read them and learn.”

“Let us say that I do not need your advice,” she said.

“Of course not,” Zevran said amiably, sipping his wine. “I spoke only of myself.”


	11. Antiva to Ferelden

 After Zevran left and she latched the window behind him, Leliana let what he’d said back out into her mind where she could see it. _A shame, what with the way she looks at you._ She circled it mentally, eyeing the words from all angles, looking for traps and mirrors.

The entire thing was a trap, really. She didn’t need a bigger distraction from the business of the realm. But it was too late now, she’d been caught in that one for too many years, and as she got out of her clothes and prepared for bed she found herself cataloging every look Cassandra had given her that night and that day, every variation on annoyed, amused, serious, tired. All just her being herself, in the way that Leliana … liked, but not any different than at any time before, were they?

She pinched the last candle flame out and lay down, breathing air still thick with the rain outside. Her own overactive heartbeat in her ears blurred into the memory of the music.

 _My fault is in not taking it lightly enough_ , Cassandra had said. Her eyes had been dark then, amused, serious?

She turned under the sheet, pulling it around her, closing her own eyes tightly, remembered her fancy of that look following her through the dances with Otranto and Valisti and the others whose conversation blurred away in her mind, and felt her entirely proper and ordinary touch at hands and wrists and shoulder and waist, and turned it less so, until finally she slept.

No dreams then, just a relieving absence of thought that lasted nearly through the night, before thunder outside startled her back to wakefulness and too many of them rushed in, images and worries that wouldn’t let her rest again.

She relit the one candle and sat in its clear little circle of light, concentrating on her breath and the center of the flame as Mother Dorothea had once shown her, until the beginnings of a rainy dawn through the shutters drowned it out.

 

* * *

 

Antiva City’s chantry was usually sparsely attended in the morning, the revered mother had said to Cassandra while they waited in the sacristy, and that went double when the squalls came in off the sea, but today seemed like an exception.

The routine of the sunrise liturgy would be soothing, even having to lead half of it. Leliana followed her out, skillfully hiding yawns, and then people started coming in, steaming from the wet, and staring. Street and well-dressed folk pushed into each other and rubbed shoulders on the long floor under the pillars. The flame before Andraste reflected on faces, brighter than the weak light in the great windows.

The two of them stood in her shadow, in the vestments that made them indistinguishable at a distance, and the people murmured and pointed.

More word of the new Divines’ peculiarities would have spread high and low after last night. Leliana’s dancing at the Montilyets’ was like all of it in one: her blithe defiance and sure footing in her particular unorthodox faith, everything that made Cassandra want to fight with her and defend her at the same time. And the way she was looking up at the flame now, almost challenging the Maker to object.

It was hard to resist that. Perhaps that was why she’d asked. And because no one else would dare ask first, but Leliana’s feet betrayed that she wanted to dance.

She should have left well enough alone. Maker, dredging up those ancient lessons in order to keep up with her, feeling stupid guilty chills at touching her like she was wearing a barrier field. At least the steps had come back fast enough that she’d not made a fool of herself.

Until she almost did, and then said an asinine thing and left her in the middle of the floor. And hid behind polite talk with Lady Montilyet and the guests who braved the dais, all the while trying not to follow where she was in the room all evening.

Just as now she was a step away and slightly back, rocking up on her toes and taking a breath to sing, the hastily assembled chanters ready to follow her, because they were starting and it was time to stop thinking about this. Cassandra bowed her head, heard the congregation go quiet, and waited.

 

* * *

 

After it was done, they left through the back way in the now-rosy morning. Still raining a little, and they ducked into the carriage waiting amid the templars who had brought them there. The doors closed, the driver chirruped to the horses, and the guards fell in around it.

Cassandra leaned back in the seat, feeling lighter and easier. The Antiva City chantry had been designed with the help of scholars of music after the Fourth Blight, and its famous vaults had magnified the Chant in an astonishing way, enveloping the space and driving out all else.

Leliana was sitting up, looking out the little window, a similar peace on her face. The carriage rolled along the cobbles, raindrops pattered on the roof, and they sat in contemplative quiet.

That was, until several streets away, the driver made an unexpected left turn, wrenching them to one side. Hooded figures swung down from buildings to either side and landed on the carriage top with soft thuds. Black cloth fell over the windows, blocking the light.

“Maker’s breath!” Leliana pulled away from the door. “Crows.”

The sick feeling of adrenaline replacing her serenity, Cassandra grabbed the handle of her own door and pushed hard, trying to dislodge the clinging attackers, but it wouldn’t budge. She put her back into it; nothing, as if it were barred with steel.

The roof was thin enough to stab through, maybe. “Lend me a knife.”

“The dramatics go all the way up.” Leliana craned her neck, trying to see out around the black fabric. Her voice was calm again. “If they wanted to kill us, they know faster ways. No, I believe someone wants to talk.” She put a hand on Cassandra’s arm. “Still, no more carriages on rainy days after this, I think?”

Giving her the ironic smile she wanted was easy, but relaxing was not.

She took it away again after a bit, and then shifted in her seat and produced a dagger from somewhere, hilt first. The blade gleamed in the semidark. “In case I am wrong.”

Cassandra accepted it and spent the rest of the ride watching the doors and thinking about ways to fit sword belts into every ceremonial robe they had given her, if this was going to be the way of things forever.

Finally, the carriage passed under some kind of cover, the darkness became complete, and she heard the Crows slide off the roof. A moment later, there was a scrape of metal and she felt her door open. Outside was as dark as inside.

“Most Holy. If you will accompany us?” a low Antivan voice said, and a hand came up under hers. She transferred the dagger to her other hand and stepped down following its lead, hearing Leliana do the same on the other side.

The Crows—more than two but less than ten, she thought—led them along a circuitous route through the darkness until her sense of direction was lost. The air was cooler than outside, and dry; the ground felt like smooth stone. Her footsteps and Leliana’s were distinctive amid the muted softness of the assassins’ feet.

Then the whisper of an oiled door, a line of momentarily dazzling warm light in front of her, and the Crows brought them into a richly furnished room like a solar, but without windows.

Another figure in black rose from a chair by the hearth, wearing a hood with smoked glass eyeholes and a long beak that covered its face completely. It made a half-bow to each of them. “Your Perfection.” The voice was disguised as well, guttural and manipulated by some device.

“What is the meaning of this?” Cassandra demanded, keeping the dagger at her side between fabric folds.

Leliana lifted her chin. “First Talon, I presume? I would also like to know.”

“I hold that rank among the Houses at present,” the figure said, nodding. “I offer a gift of information you may value, and perhaps the Chantry will offer one in return.”

“What manner of gift?” Leliana asked.

“Decide when you hear this.” The First Talon waved, and the other Crows—seven of them—faded back out the door. It closed behind Cassandra with a click.

“The first part is a story I would have you hear firsthand.” The Talon clapped. A tapestry parted on one side of the room, and a young elven man entered. As he came closer, she saw new burn scars across his face and head, extending into his brown hair and over one ear.

“I am sure you are aware of the … group calling themselves the Exalted March of Andraste.” Leliana gave a sharp nod and the Talon continued. “He was set to watch them in Starkhaven, for our purposes.” It turned to the man. “Tell them.”

He bowed and then began, keeping his eyes on the floor. His voice was rough and it seemed an effort to speak. “I took a room near their meeting place. I was chosen for my stealth. They did not see me for months. I tracked the leaders’ movements and reported.” He coughed and his face twisted. “There was a woman who said she served in the chantry in Kirkwall, helped Commander Meredith. Before the war. They all listened to her. I think she was the first one. I never got close enough, but there was something strange about her eyes.”

Cassandra took a step forward. “Do not tell me they were red.”

Leliana glanced at her. “It makes too much sense.”

The burned Crow looked up. “Yes, Most Holy. There was a red glow about her. She called it Our Lady’s righteous wrath, said she was chosen to cleanse Her people.

“I followed her and her acolytes to the palace, and the chantry, and several noble houses. The meetings grew more popular and larger, and they began to have great fires. The prince himself came to one, and then the woman met sometimes with other nobles where I could not watch. They all started to attend regularly.”

“The names. Are they part of your gift?” Leliana said to the First Talon.

The Talon reached into its coat and took out a sealed paper, then waved to the elf to continue.

He coughed again, a tearing harsh sound. “One night I was careless and they caught me. She called me spy and rabbit filth and she glowed, and they did what she called the Maker’s will.” He gestured to his face.

“It was not.” Anger tinged Cassandra’s voice. “These—”

Leliana’s gaze shifted to the First Talon. “We will give considerably for this.”

“We want them kept out of Antiva,” it said. “They are bad for business.” It made a sound like a chuckle. “We prefer to deal with the priests we know. And we have … professional respect for you especially, Nightingale. Birds of a feather, as they say.”

“Yes, yes,” Leliana said, unamused. “What more?”

“A favor to be repaid in the future,” the Talon said. “I suspect now is not the best time for the Chantry coffers.”

She turned, her face questioning. “Take it,” Cassandra said, still looking at the Crow’s burns, her hand tightening beside her.

Leliana nodded, then turned back and took the paper from the Talon’s hand. “We will await you, then.”

“Indeed. A pleasure.” It bowed just its head again.

“Why has he not been healed?” Cassandra cut in. “You have mages here.”

“He has been, Most Holy. You did not see him before.”

“Clearly they did not finish the job.” She looked at the elf. “There are spirit healers with the Inquisition who could. We would see it was done.”

His eyes brightened. He coughed into his hand. “I would …”

“Come to the palace and I will arrange it,” she told him.

Leliana, standing back and watching, did not interfere.

She scribbled a note for him to show the guards and sealed it with her ring and drips from a nearby candle, and he thanked both of them, and then the First Talon disappeared with him through the hidden panel like a shadow.

 

* * *

 

When the Crows delivered them back to the same street corner and released their templars, who were visibly relieved not to have lost them for good, the rain had stopped and it was midmorning.

On the way in the dark carriage, Leliana had been quietly furious at her agents and everyone in the Starkhaven chantry. “I do not see how anyone could miss this,” she said. “Unless they never meant to see it, or for us to hear of it.”

She subsided into silence until they were back in the palace rooms and, still in thought, she nearly walked into a pile of gifts and letters from the merchant princes. She cursed and then stopped.

“I am not myself today,” she said after a moment. “Until later,” and she disappeared into her bedchamber.

The guest wing’s salon was high-ceilinged, painted with another sky overhead, and filled with a nearly echoing quiet without her. After several of the attending sisters came in to sit with politely bowed heads and took out needlework, the quiet became more tense.

Cassandra set Leliana’s dagger on the table, opened the shutters to let in some air, and then fell to examining the gifts: various small art objects with Andrastian themes, carved animals, illuminated books, cleverly packaged Antivan delicacies it would not be wise to eat.

She recognized the names and seals of some men and women from the ball. The letters were almost competitively pious, with many invocations of Our Lady and invitations and vows to sponsor good works in hope of the Chantry’s favor and protection. Some of them went a touch beyond devout to smitten, she thought. Leliana might be entertained.

She idly arranged them on the table, then rearranged them, her mind falling back to red lyrium and fire and other splinter groups the Seekers had put down in the past when they became dangerous. They could not allow another Order of Fiery Promise to take hold. If the Exalted March were not just pieces in a political game against them, but posed a real threat to the people, they should be ended even more quickly.

In the next few hours, several more gifts were delivered, some by servants and some by the givers themselves, who seemed to come only to pass time, drink the cold drinks sent up by the palace kitchens, and disrupt her train of thought with pleasantries and requests for the Maker’s blessing.

Some time after the last one took his leave, a very ruffled chamberlain brought a card on a tray formally inviting them to the king’s state dinner that evening. Cassandra took it from him herself and set it with the other letters.

Finally, as she was wondering if she should knock, Leliana’s door opened. She came out briskly, head down, with a worried line between her brows.

“There are some things—” Cassandra started.

Leliana glanced at the array. “Not now,” she said. “Knowing what we learned, it feels like there are greasy fingerprints all over my network.” Her shoulders tightened in a nearly imperceptible shudder. “I must change the codes. Clean house. Fill the holes in my information. As soon as possible. But first—” She turned to the attendants and raised her voice. “Leave us and send Sister Nadine here.”

They jumped up and filed out with their embroidery behind their backs.

A few minutes passed before Nadine entered, head down, white-knuckled hands knotted in her skirt.

Leliana closed the doors and slid the bar across them, then faced the girl. “Sit, child,” she said.

Nadine’s face was red, and she was shaking. She jerkily lowered herself into a chair.

“I think you know why you’re here,” Leliana said. “It’s time to tell us.”

There were tears in her eyes. She mumbled something.

“Speak up,” Cassandra said.

The tears spilled out. “The grand cleric said no one would believe a rookery girl.”

“What grand cleric?” Cassandra said before Leliana glanced at her.

“In my dormitory, a grand cleric came to see me, at least I think she was, and she said me and the other girls would all be out on the streets if I didn’t do what she said.”

“Go on,” Leliana said.

“She had other sisters watching. They told us what birds to keep back and send on. I only kept the messages they wanted, I can give them to you—”

“Kept?” Cassandra’s hand came down on the table with a crack, and glass and metal rattled. “Do you know what you may have done?”

Nadine buried her face in her arms and sobbed. “I’m so sorry. Maker forgive me, I didn’t want to. I guess you’ll kill me now, they said it was treason and you’d kill me—”

Leliana touched the girl’s head and stroked her hair.

“I wanted to tell after a while, Most Holy, but someone was always watching. I had to keep lying and lying to you … I’m not even good at it … they said ships are dangerous …”

“They were right,” Cassandra said, “but we don’t kill children.”

“They will know after this, regardless.” Leliana nodded to the door. Nadine looked up with swollen eyes and followed her gaze. “You must side with me for good or go back to them as you are.”

Through another sob she said, “Yes, Most Holy.”

“Go into my room and wash your face,” Leliana told her, “and then take me to everything you have.”

Nadine stood, still moving awkwardly, and did as she was told.

When she had disappeared into the other room, Leliana took a long breath and set her hands on the table. “But I threaten them,” she muttered. “I can’t call myself better. I can’t—”

She seized a garish figurine from the table and hurled it at the wall. Porcelain shards and dust flew.

“That was the right one to break,” Cassandra said, after a moment.

Leliana turned and exhaled, hair falling over her face, color in her cheeks. “It was hideous, wasn’t it.”

“Very much.”

She knelt to sweep the pieces into her hand. “I’m sorry.”

“Nonsense. You have been doing the work of a legion.” Cassandra picked up the state dinner invitation. “Tonight I will go to this and do my share of the Game-playing.”

Leliana set her handful of broken porcelain on the table and glanced at her sidelong. “Are you sure?”

“And leave the rest of the public appearances in Antiva to me. I have done enough of them with Beatrix, Maker knows. This situation needs you.”

“It will help to have fewer distractions.” She tilted her head. Her look had turned strangely inquisitive.

“I will not stab anyone.”

Leliana smiled then and looked back toward her door. “That’s all I ask.”

 

* * *

 

After that morning, Cassandra decided once and for all that tradition was less important than having a sword with her, and added one over the black and red surcoat. It still looked reasonably ceremonial, no one said anything, and it was comforting.

The dinner was like scores of others she’d watched from the Divine’s right as a glorified bodyguard, and she thought she did well enough at the center of it. She mentioned that Victoria was indisposed, the king made polite noises of concern, and then there was only one chair and the court were all looking at her. She said a brief prayer over the food, and was diplomatic to the king and her noble table companions, and tried to embody her view of what the Chantry should be.

All the while, she was anticipating some new unpleasant surprise and worried about the security of the guest wing. By the last course, she was only relieved there’d been no need to break her word.

Later, she described it to Leliana (still where she’d left her, and unharmed).

“Houses Agnelli and Tessaro are interested in some of the new initiatives,” she said. “Lady Catarina was quite affected by the story of the refugees in Tantervale.”

“Good.” Leliana stared down at the straw-covered and bird-soiled cache of messages from Nadine, making a face. “All of southern Thedas may be in debt to Antiva now, but we may just manage to rebuild if we survive.” She picked up one she had already opened at her side and held it out. “And now I think we should leave for Ferelden sooner rather than later, because look at this charming late arrival.”

It was abbreviated and dirty, but it was from Elaine in Kirkwall, dated a fortnight before. The Inquisition had captured two of the Venatori mages, but they killed themselves before they could be secured, she wrote, and the rest had fled through an eluvian that shattered behind them. Elaine and Merrill were accompanying them back to Skyhold to aid in the continuing search.

Cassandra took the second seat by the desk, sighed, and raked her fingers through her hair. “So we are still fighting on two fronts. Of course.”

”And we know where neither is, exactly.” Leliana reached into the box, opened another, glanced at it. Her voice was tired. “One bright spot is that now I am fairly certain the interfering grand cleric is Triana.”

Cassandra leaned forward and took one herself.

“It fits her little faction too well,” Leliana went on. “Too fainthearted to present a real challenge or properly control their cat’s-paws, but too eager to push in if we fall or are forced out. And the Crows’ list names the Lyne family in Starkhaven, who have been great supporters of hers.”

”The Exalted March does not seem overly interested in who started it.”

“Yes. I assume they regret bridling this lion, but not enough to let go now.” She picked through the box with her fingertips. “I still don’t know how my people are involved or whether they are truly compromised, but they are not reliable until I find out.”

There was a hesitant tap on the door, then a louder one.

“Come in,” Leliana said, covering the box.

Sister Nadine put her head in. She had scrubbed her face and changed her robe. “Most Holy, is there anything more you need this evening?”

“No,” she said, “we are fine. You may sleep out there. We will watch over you.”

The girl dropped a clumsy low curtsy and withdrew.

“I wanted her somewhere I can keep an eye on her,” Leliana said. “At least I know the allegiance of one of them.”

Cassandra set down the message she had been reading. “The chantry mother here could be persuaded to have some need for the others. One less thing to put up with.”

She laughed sharply. “That would teach them, wouldn’t it?”

 

* * *

 

That night Cassandra stayed with her until the box was done, and in the following days she went out and made excuses for her and managed Antivan nobles and audiences on her own while Leliana wrestled with counterintelligence at a distance.

And every time she came back, Leliana threw herself harder at the work so she would not be trapped into reading tea leaves over her expressions. Damn Zevran anyway, and she would tell him that when she saw him in Val Royeaux.

She sent instructions to have the Grand Cathedral rookery staff reassigned and replaced, changed all of the code keys, and set the agents she personally knew and trusted to investigate the others. She sent every bird away with her own hands. By the fourth day the palace servants scattered every time they saw her coming down again.

When the _Cathaire_ was resupplied and ready to embark, they said their formal farewells at the palace and boarded without the possibly traitorous sisters. Nadine seemed ready to take on all the work alone as some kind of penance, and Leliana had to assure her that they could manage themselves.

Sailing from Antiva to Denerim on the cusp of storm season was a long, grim, unrelieved stretch of tension and rain. With no news, no land in sight, nothing to ground her thoughts, she walked the deck and was short with Cassandra and spent nights throwing knives at the table leg in her cabin alone. The sky seemed constantly gray and darkening in the east.

Off Brandel’s Reach, the threatening clouds finally descended, whipping the sea into great rolling towers of waves. Wind and water buffeted the ship, tearing at the sails.

Lightning cracked in the distance. Captain Mireille clung to a rope and shouted for all but the working sailors to take cover below.

The wind beat against her cabin door. Leliana forced it back, shielding her face, but rain and spray drove through her outer clothes as she made her way to the hatch, balancing against the heaving of the deck.

When she dropped from the ladder, Cassandra was there with the templars, Nadine, and a cluster of crew members waiting to spell those working above.

“Good. You are here,” she said. “Is anyone else missing?”

“The cook?” Nadine said timidly. “Is he here?”

He was not, and Cassandra grumbled something under her breath and then climbed back up.

Leliana watched her disappear into the gale and allowed the protective ache she felt for a second, then turned to attend to the ones who needed it.

The second mate gave directions, and they ran from side to side tying things down as the ship sent them swinging and sliding. She sent up thanks to the Maker that she had never been seasick. While hurrying to secure a heavy coil of cable, Nadine tripped on her robes. Leliana caught her by the arm and they finished tying it together.

A wave crashed against the port side and the ship pitched. The cook came tumbling down the ladder, but landed on his feet like the old veteran he was. A moment later Cassandra followed him, pulling the hatch closed above her, and the roar of the storm was muted.

“The captain says it may last all night,” she said. “We are to settle in and stay calm.”

As the deck heaved, Leliana lowered herself to sit, bracing her side against one of the ship’s great ribs. With the hatches closed and no lamps or candles lit for fear of fire, it was dark below; they were all paler or darker shapes clustered in a rough circle. The air was heavy with seawater and too many nervous people. Off to the side, a templar retched into something.

“Not the worst Amaranthine summer storm I’ve seen,” the cook announced. “Not the easiest either, mind, but you’ve just got to wait it out. Begging your pardon, Your Holiness.”

“Well, that is reassuring,” said Cassandra from the ladder. She crossed to the lashed-down water barrel beside Leliana and then said closer to her, “Maker, if more of them get seasick—”

“Oh, bite your tongue.” She moved over, and Cassandra took the spot between her and a sailor who was muttering snatches of the Chant. She wrapped her arms around herself.

Leliana’s own wet clothes were clammy and chafing, though it wasn’t cold. Another wave broke on the ship with a creaking crash, directly behind her; an atavistic fear surged for an instant beneath her consciousness, and the hairs rose on her skin. The sea was a power that respected none of hers.

After a time, Cassandra said, pitched for the others to hear, “This reminds me of a night when the Inquisitor and I were down in the Deep Roads during the earthquakes.”

A few of the sailors raised their heads, and the muttering quieted.

“Even she thought the cave would come apart around us all. I prayed to Andraste as we ran. There were darkspawn on all sides.”

She told the rest of the story Leliana remembered hearing in scraps as Charter sent word back from the Storm Coast, and later from Ida and Sera and an unimpressed Vivienne. Cassandra’s version was plainer, but caught at her as a bard’s would not have.

“We were deep in the darkness and then there was a vast place of light. Like nothing I have seen,” she said finally. “My conclusion is that the world is strange, and the Maker’s grace is hard to fathom.”

As the ship lurched again, there was a murmur of “Maker bless us” and “By the Lady,” and the spirit in the group seemed stronger.

 _And she thinks she can’t do this_ , Leliana thought. _This is what they need ._

“Most Holy, if it please you, would you pray with us?” another voice asked.

“If you wish,” she said, “or maybe Victoria can—”

“Of course we both will,” Leliana said.

She called on the parts of the Chant that were strongest in her memory and began a traditional circle recitation. Cassandra’s voice was and steady in the dark under hers, over the raging of the wind and waves outside.

As time passed the sailors traded off, wet tired ones coming down into the circle and other fuzzy shapes leaving to replace them. Others huddled in corners, or where they had sat, to attempt sleep.

When Leliana felt herself fading and her voice flagging, she dropped out of the recitation. She relaxed into the rough boards of the deck, sleepless nights catching up to her, and her eyes eventually closed.

 

* * *

 

She came back to wakefulness slowly, feeling cozy and calm and disoriented. When her mind was half aware, she recognized a scratchy ship’s blanket over her and a warm solidity against her back.

A little more awake, a few pieces put together, and she realized it was Cassandra’s knee, and who knew how long she had been curled up against her like this. She froze in mortification, suddenly completely and exquisitely alert, keeping her eyes closed.

Cassandra shifted a little, and seemed to be awake, but she hadn’t moved away. Leliana lay still a few moments longer, listening to her breathe and wondering.

When she finally stretched and opened her eyes, Cassandra flinched back. “I did not want to wake you.”

“I didn’t mean to sleep,” she said. “But we are not at the Maker’s side, yes? The storm is over?”

“For an hour or so.”

Indeed, the hatch above was open and a sunbeam had found its way down, straight into her face when she turned over. The templars and most of the crew still slept in loose arrangements, gathered around barrels, crates, in hammocks.

As Leliana picked her way around them and climbed up into the daylight to ask the captain about their position, the questions she’d played with so long were pushing in with a new unnerving weight: _W_ hat if? and _W_ _hat would I do?_ and then _W_ _hat can I?_

 

* * *

 

When they anchored in Denerim days later, the city was packed with crowds of pilgrims, and Queen Anora welcomed them in the castle gardens.

Her stewards had arranged a reception outdoors to take advantage of the sunny morning: appropriately restrained for All Souls, with nothing too Orlesian. The queen kept to her father’s preferences in that. Senior clerics and mothers from the Denerim and Amaranthine chantries had been invited; Anora herself was not taking the pilgrimage, but many of them would be.

Leliana was too tightly wound to enjoy the beauty of the day. She had still not been sleeping since the storm, the results of her orders from Antiva were not yet apparent, and she was torn between worries too far away to reach and too close for comfort.

On top of that, it would take more than a new crop of flowers for her to forget the spot where Marjolaine had left her bleeding out. Surely the queen couldn’t know what had happened to her in this garden long ago—or else Anora played the Game dirtier than she had assumed.

“We are thankful for the Inquisition’s assistance in these past years,” the queen was saying to Cassandra as they walked, “but Ferelden cannot suffer another fight that is not ours. I am told there is trouble again in the Free Marches. Will it cross the sea?”

“No,” Cassandra said decisively, clasping her hands behind her back. “I promise you that.”

“It will be dealt with,” Leliana added. “Plans are in motion.”

“Well, I may say that Ferelden looks forward to restoring its strong relationship with the Chantry, in both your persons.” Anora looked to each of them, and her smile was cool but not false. “I presume plans are also in motion for our Circle.”

“We are negotiating.” She did not elaborate. “Ferelden is important to me, as you may know.”

“We have not forgotten your part in saving us from the Blight, Your Holiness. And myself, personally. That is important to me.”

They turned a corner and came upon Denerim’s revered mother with several of her sisters around her. “Your Grace,” she said, “Most Holy. Everything at the chantry is ready to receive you before you set out.”

“It is an honor to walk the Pilgrim’s Path,” Cassandra said. “We have prepared ourselves.”

Fasting was part of the preparation. Leliana had eaten nothing that day, which could not be helping her tension.

“Maker bless your journey,” Anora said.

At noon, they walked from the castle in procession to the chantry, through crowds of onlookers, Fereldan and not. Inside the old mother prayed over them, then took them apart and gave them undyed pilgrims’ robes to wear.

Leliana took off the layers of the Divine’s vestments and folded them. This was one task she hadn’t been worrying about, but now she didn’t know if she was truly prepared to set down all the burdens for long enough to follow the steps of Andraste.

As the mother anointed her with water and passed the flame around her, she tried to surrender her thoughts, made herself do it for one step out of the vestry and then the next.

Leaving the chantry, she thought of her younger self back in Lothering with her head half in the clouds, seeing visions from the Maker. She would have thrilled to this more than anything, the ceremony and the silence and the cries of the people on either side, the dust under her feet and the brightness overhead.

That Leliana was still there. Buried, perhaps, but this was the day of remembrance.

So they walked, and the guards and pilgrims followed them, one step at a time, out of the city of Andraste’s birth and to the north, from day into night.

 

* * *

 

On the second day of the pilgrimage, walking in the long shadows of trees that had survived the darkspawn in the Wending Wood, with the dizzy heightened consciousness of fasting, Leliana began to imagine other people she had lost.

Her mother was there for a long time, a blurry presence of warmth and kindness, a sweet smell and an embrace. And more clearly focused, Lady Cecilie, tiptoeing over the path in satin slippers with a moue of distaste, chiding Leliana to stand up straight and practice. Tug, belly-laughing at his old partner calling herself Divine Victoria I, telling her to pull the other one. Wynne, with a light of healing and a soothing word for her young companion. Marjolaine, because she couldn’t escape that, a sly golden-eyed stare at the edge of her awareness.

And Dorothea, of course, Justinia, whichever she was now, walking between her and Cassandra but not leading them, ambiguously expectant. All the way through the trees, Leliana went back and forth on whether she imagined her expression as satisfaction or judgment.

After the walls of Amaranthine became visible in the distance, they began to encounter people gathered along the path. Guards hurried ahead to form a wide protective ring around them.

Cassandra was a little ahead of her. Judging by herself, Leliana knew she was tired and lightheaded and dirty, but she kept walking like she was leading an army, and the people on either side cheered.

And as she watched the people watch her, it became crystal-clear all at once that she might, would, risk herself, but she wouldn’t put a knife in Cassandra’s back. Acting on her feelings right now, whatever the chance, would be like handing one to their enemies. The thought of that made her shudder.

Marjolaine laughed at her from somewhere, _So noble, pretty thing_ , but she ignored it. It felt better to have decided.

 

* * *

 

Birds were chattering in the trees they passed as the sun went down. Amaranthine was close now, the second station on Andraste’s journey to her sacrifice.

The people the templars pushed back were saying things, but after two days on water alone, all the sounds outside Cassandra’s head had started to run together. Next would come unsteadiness on her feet, but they would get there before then.

A flock of them rose from one tree and flew up dark against the pink of the clouds, then faded. Like souls flying to the Maker. She tried to count them before they vanished.

How many people had gone like them before her? It felt like Leliana was the last one with her.

And yet that wasn’t really true: leaving out how no one left the Divine alone, there were her friends from the Inquisition; but they were not the same. _Maker, all right, they’re not the same._

Cassandra kept stumbling into that line where they weren’t, and for more than one instant it had seemed like she might be right on the other side of it.

Leliana walked now like she was weighed down. She had lost people too. She’d been doing so much.

Cassandra tried to picture going on like this indefinitely. Maybe the Maker did want that from her. Or maybe she was missing His point and she should face it, do something.

 _If this is in Your plan, show me what You mean by it,_ she thought. _What else am I on this path for?_

 

* * *

 

After the last stretch through the city, there was an Andraste play outside the Chantry of Our Lady Redeemer. The same story she’d heard thousands of times over decades, but when She burned, the congregation of pilgrims cried out in collective overwhelming grief, and tears came to Cassandra’s eyes. Leliana hid her face.

At the end they were swept inside the chantry by gentle-voiced sisters and brothers, given soup to drink slowly and baths and their own clothes and tidy bare rooms to sleep in.

When she came in to go to her bed, Leliana was standing by the cold hearth. “I think you need to go to Val Royeaux.”

She was shaken. “What?”

”We can be in two places at once. We should use that. The ship will be here tomorrow.” Leliana turned and held out another of her neverending message slips.

Cassandra pulled herself together to decipher it. A report from the ex-Crow Zevran Arainai. In a few words it described worse conditions in the city than they had been told: checkpoints at the gates, mysterious fires and street fights, Exalted March signs everywhere, Celene’s guard pulling out of the lower city, elves and dwarves lying low, and the Cathedral essentially locked down.

“This is credible?”

“He is. There is also the meeting at Skyhold, or I would go. The negotiations are too—”

She was not wrong about either. “Yes. I see.”

“Zevran can help.” She was looking down. “Give him orders.” Her hands twisted. “I have—”

“Leliana.” It came out brusquer than she meant. “If I am to leave tomorrow, let me sleep.”

After a moment, she nodded once and walked out.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Cassandra waited on the Amaranthine dock, still bone-tired and not yet gathered up from where she’d been scattered after the pilgrimage. The sailors were still loading crates into the hold. She shaded her eyes and looked up at the deck.

Then she heard steps behind her. Leliana, running, trailed by five yawning sisters. She’d said farewell already. Why—

She caught up and pushed a paper into her hands. “My personal cipher,” she said under her breath. “There are notebooks in my things, in the Cathedral, you may need to refer to. I’ve been using variations on this since I learned it from Marjolaine.”

“Who is—”

“That’s not important. Take it.”

Cassandra took it, held it.

“I don’t want to be alone in this, Cassandra,” she said quickly then, stepping back. “Maker watch over you.”

 


	12. Skyhold | Val Royeaux

 Skyhold was almost as they had left it: the mountain chill was of winter approaching instead of leaving, the trees were turning red again, and dry leaves dotted the ground instead of wildflowers.

 As Leliana rode up the causeway, Josephine came hurrying through the gate to meet her, delight nearly overriding her diplomatic decorum.

 “Most Holy Victoria! The Inquisition is overjoyed to be your host.”

 “Josie, please, you can use my name.” She glanced back at the Fereldan army detachment Anora had sent with her from Amaranthine, who were trailing her and gawking at the castle. “Don’t stand on ceremony on their account.”

 Cullen was leaning on the gatehouse wall and bowed to her neatly. “Welcome back.”

 Leliana swung her leg over the saddle and alighted. One of the stablemen took the reins from her with a muttered “If you please, Your Holiness.”

 He’d been with them from the beginning in Haven. “Thank you. And how is your wife?” she said, ducking to meet his eyes. “Feeling better now, I trust?”

 “Oh, much better,” he said, looking up and breaking into a grin. “We’ll get your horses seen to.”

 Josephine took her arm, and they walked through the courtyard and up the steps. “The Inquisitor is out looking for these lost Venatori of yours, but she will be back. Some of the mage delegation are here. I had the best room set aside for you, of course.”

“So you’ve given away my bed in the tower?”

“Please. I have my reputation to consider. I cannot put the Divine in a closet.” Josie chuckled. “Oh, it is good to see you, Leliana.”

It sounded strange on her ear. She realized she’d heard her name from no one except Cassandra for months.

“Are there any messages for me?” she asked, interrupting what Josie was about to say.

“Not that I know of. Charter will know better.”

A visit to the rookery confirmed it, but her former second assured her anything that flew in would reach her hands in minutes. Her things were brought to the best guest room, over the garden, with the wall walk that was so useful for listening in on the dignitaries.

She drew the curtains and took some time in the chapel before dinner.

Vivienne had not yet arrived from Montsimmard. Fiona would be sitting in as grand enchanter emeritus, and several representatives of the Aequitarian and Libertarian fraternities would also be taking part. All seemed as reasonable and ready for change as she could expect.

Going into this without the background reports she would have prepared for Justinia was unnerving, but there was no chance with her resources overcommitted to the Exalted March matter. At least none of these women were likely to want her dead.

At dinner—in Skyhold’s tumbledown private dining room, now rebuilt and redecorated within an inch of its life—Josephine introduced the enchanters to her. She spoke lightly about her recent travels and made herself charming, asking more questions than she answered.

Between the fish and the meat course, the Inquisitor arrived, with Sera, Merrill, and the Iron Bull in tow, and Scout Harding and Ser Elaine looking diffident behind them. Seeing her, Elaine paused and saluted before following Harding to the far end of the table.

“Sorry I’m late,” Ida announced to the company at large as she took the place set for her at the head. “I’d better shape up with Divine Victoria here.” She grinned and leaned toward Leliana. “I’ve missed you. I told you we all would.”

“And we have missed all of you,” Leliana said.

“Yes, I’m sorry Cassandra couldn’t come too,” Ida said, pouring wine for herself.

“Right,” said Sera, reaching for a spoon. “No fun chasing this evil magicky shite without a Seeker to go first.”

Leliana tried not to laugh and failed. “I’ll tell her that.”

”But we’ll catch them.” Ida lifted her goblet. “Slippery bastards.”

“Yeah,” said Bull from further down the table, raising his mug in return. “Just a little more clean-up.”

Josephine signaled to the kitchen to bring out more food for them. “Merrill was so kind to come all this way from Kirkwall,” she said, “and your good knight-captain too,” making one of her gracious-hostess gestures down at Elaine, who muttered something abashed and looked at her plate.

“I was so very pleased to,” said Merrill. “I studied them a great deal, but I’ve not seen an eluvian come to life since …” she trailed off and took a breath. “The libraries here, did you know how old they are? Anyway, I have been trying some things to find the Venatori through this mirror, and the Lady Inquisitor has been humoring me.”

Enchanter Fiona asked her, “Nothing yet, then?”

Merrill shook her head, and they started into a technical discussion of the principles involved that rapidly went over Leliana’s head, but sounded productive.

After dinner, and Vivienne’s fashionably late arrival with another entourage of mages, and more greetings and pointed conversation that would have been enjoyable if she had less on her mind, she excused herself, saying she had to prepare for the morning.

As she sat on the bed in her room—a curtained thing big enough for five people, she didn’t know how Josie had gotten it in there—going over her planned remarks and adding final notes, one of Charter’s aides came to the door, out of breath from hurrying.

She did not jump up, and she made herself wait for him to leave before looking at the message.

It wasn’t the hand she wanted to see, and might have been in contention for the one she least wanted. Clearly, Calpernia wasn’t happy about it either.

The magister’s dislike dripped off every short line. She would still find the blood mages, despite the Inquisition’s ineptitude so far, and was holding them to their agreement. She also noted that soon the astronomical conditions in the eastern Dales and the mountains would be conducive to their workings, and the coming anniversary of the Breach was an appropriate time for revenge. That much was obvious, but Leliana would have to tell the Inquisitor.

All the next morning and all afternoon, she was closeted with Josephine and the mages, breaking only to eat and go to the rookery again.

There was nothing more for her and nothing from Val Royeaux. Charter said they’d heard very little out of the city lately, and she forced that to the back of her mind during the second session of talks.

“I don’t think anyone expected you to open by signing over the College of Magi and all the Circle buildings free and clear,” Josephine said, sitting on the bed with her that night. She nibbled on a cake from the plate she had brought. “I certainly did not. But then I started to think about the cost of maintenance.”

“Well, there is that.”

“Still, a grand gesture. It would be a shame for most of them to fall into ruin. The White Spire …”

“Some might call that just. But I’m pleased they are considering taking them back.” Leliana reached for one of the cakes.

“Grand and controversial,” Josephine went on. “I have heard about this cult springing up in the north. They surely do not approve.”

“No, indeed.” She bit into the cake: sweet almond and spices. “But I have a plurality of the clerics, and Cassandra, which is enough.”

“And the people?”

“The people will approve of whatever we convince them to. You know that. And I will convince them.”

Josephine opened her mouth, then closed it.

“I know this is more change than anyone has asked them to accept in a very long time,” she went on. “But it’s the right thing, Josie. They must see that.”

“I believe you. But this Exalted March is telling a tale some want to hear, I think.”

“All the more reason to be very convincing in cutting their strings.” Leliana paused before letting herself ask, “What have you heard from court?”

Josephine told her, though it wasn’t much more than she had. Celene was preparing to remove to the Winter Palace early, on account of the disturbances in the city. Nobles seeking her favor called the street preachers vulgar. One marquis had announced publicly that this common rabble should burn at their own stakes.

Leliana sighed inwardly. That would not help anything. She imagined flame and barricades arising in the streets of Val Royeaux as she slept far away.

“Oh, but it is late.” Josephine stretched. “We all need our sleep for tomorrow, don’t we?” She moved to slide off the bed.

The acute desire not to be left alone with her thoughts made Leliana reach for her hand. “You don’t have to leave.”

Josephine’s eyebrows went up. “I did not think that was … allowed.”

“Differing interpretations.” She dropped her hand and looked down. “But forgive me, Josie. I didn’t really—”

“I will stay,” Josephine said, “if not like that.” She resettled herself on the coverlet, tucking her legs and her blue-and-gold skirts under her. “Come here.” She patted Leliana’s back, then touched her hair. “There is also a new style at court. Little six-strand braids. Shall I try it?”

Leliana nodded, raising her chin.

Josie combed her fingers through and began to separate strands on one side. After some time, she said, “Whatever else is troubling you, do not let it interfere with the negotiations.”

She shook her head and relaxed into the twisting and stroking, chagrined that she had a chance of being that obvious.

 

* * *

 

The Sea Gate was closed. A line of people, animals, and carts stretched back and wound around the closer piers and boardwalks in the long shadows of evening, quarreling among themselves and policed by city guards who walked up and down.

Cassandra wondered if she should have worn the robes, but the templars in Grand Cathedral arms, and Sister Nadine following her like a nervous puppy, were enough to make the line part and a hush fall for a good distance.

Behind the metal scrollwork of the outer gate, three harried guardsmen were taking names, asking questions, and doing cursory searches of cargo. When they saw her, the one taking notes set down his book and started to kneel.

She raised the hand with the ring on it to forestall him. “We have nothing to search. Carry on.”

“Out of the way for the Divine!” the guard shouted, and the wagons blocking the gate rolled slowly forward and back until they could squeeze through.

The streets of Val Royeaux were subdued, though their colors and gilding were still bright in the warm sinking sun. People hurried anxiously to their destinations once they were let in. Shops had their windows shuttered, and handbills appeared on walls warning against public gatherings.

As they approached the outer court of the Cathedral, the streets grew emptier, but the templars moved up to flank her.

Cassandra had never seen the siege gates locked. Divine Justinia had refused to do it even during the mage uprising. But someone had now: a forbidding ironclad wall closed off the Maker’s house, backed up by another of their scarce knight-captains and his men for good measure.

“What is this?” she said, and her anger must have been clear, because they began to fall all over themselves to explain that they were following orders for security.

“Open it,” she said, cutting them off.

Inside, the flame still burned at the grand altar, but too many of the halls behind were quiet and dark, in a time when people would need refuge. How many clerics had left the city, and how many were still in residence hiding? And what excuses would they make when they showed themselves?

“Most Holy Valeria! We did not expect you back so early!” said the brother seneschal of the palace wing, hurrying out of his office and bowing in a red puddle of silk.

“No, you didn’t,” she said, walking past him.

The guard on the Divines’ apartments had been cut back, reasonably. She ordered them replaced with men and women she trusted from Elaine’s squad, then went from room to room inside and told everyone she found to leave.

Her steps rang on the polished floors, and Sister Nadine’s were a soft echo. The girl was still following her hesitantly, as if she didn’t know what else to do. Cassandra remembered she was in danger here. “You can stay,” she said over her shoulder. “Just amuse yourself and keep out of the way.”

When she was sure their chambers were empty and secure, she barred the main doors, sighed, and began another systematic search for traps.

At first Nadine watched with big eyes, but eventually she drifted into the small receiving room where a fire was burning, and the next time Cassandra saw her, she was asleep on a chaise.

The rooms were clean, as far as she could tell after a few hours. She was convinced Orlesians liked ornate furniture specifically because it was so hard to find anything hidden in the curlicues.

Going into Leliana’s room without her there had felt vaguely wrong, and yet the longer she stayed the harder it was to leave. She had more _things_ than Cassandra ever did, and all of them together were like a fine-edged, scented, multifaceted, possibly dangerous echo of her presence.

The little altar in the corner with sweet-smelling candles; the instruments and music scrolls and tea set, and the scrupulously maintained, elegantly curved bows in the wall rack, and the paintings she chose herself.

On the writing desk, quills and colored inks and papers. In the drawer, oiled and shining daggers rolled in velvet, and cryptically labeled vials.

At the foot of the bed, a chest of lacy things Cassandra didn’t look too closely at. In the bedside table, a box of letters she also put back quickly, but not before seeing the little carved nightingale tucked in beside them. She’d seen it in Ferelden and bought it for Leliana years ago as a half joke, saying it reminded her of her, and had she kept it all this time?

Cassandra finally found the notebooks under a loose piece of tile that was unmarked in any way, because of course it wouldn’t be: marble thin enough to crack if she dropped it, covering a shallow compartment in the floor.

Still feeling like an intruder, she took several back to her own room, and began trying to apply the code Leliana had given her.

It was quite a bit more difficult than the other, but she’d memorized it after a few days back on the Waking Sea with nothing else to do.

As Cassandra pieced the words together, the notes became even more like wandering through Leliana’s mind. Most of them seemed to be careful descriptions of her past operations with identifying information left out, but scattered throughout were lists of code names, humorous observations, to-do lists, sketches and maps of unspecified locations, some of which she recognized, and occasionally fragments of music notation in the margins.

Despite the deliberate obfuscation of details, this was more than Cassandra had ever seen of her at once. She felt an odd, flattered honor at having been allowed.

It was dark outside, and she’d lit the candelabra on her own desk, when she heard a rattle and then a distinct scrape at the long window that opened on the garden.

Immediately, she was on her feet, across the room, yanking it open and seizing the would-be intruder by the neck.

It was an elf, brown skin, straggly blond hair, rather nice leather armor and two knives, but neither drawn. He coughed and spluttered. “Zevran—Arainai—at your—” he managed to get out, holding up empty hands over the sill.

She pulled him the rest of the way in through the curtain and dropped him.

“You are lucky I’ve heard your name. This is not an apology, Serah Arainai. Don’t try my windows again.”

“Assuredly not,” he said, feeling his neck.

“But. L—Victoria seems to think you can be useful.”

“Well, you are paying me, Most Holy. I strive to offer the best service.” The elf grinned in a licentious but friendly sort of way. “Even if that is as a humble punching bag.”

She took the chair again and leaned forward. “Good. Then tell me about the Exalted March.”

He cleared his throat. “Wine would smooth the way. No? Well, then. In short, they are here, and they are unpleasant.”

Cassandra waved him to the other chair.

“Your formerly sinister counterpart asked me to look into certain—”

“She did. Grand Cleric Triana?”

“Ah, you are ahead of me. The grand cleric is eager to disavow them now, but no one likes a turncoat. As I know from experience.” Zevran gestured in the air. “The letters back and forth become increasingly interesting.”

When she pressed him for details, he began to describe exactly how he had secured the affections of Triana’s secretaries. “I’ll take that as read,” Cassandra said before the tale grew too elaborate. “What letters?”

“Oh, yes. From the mysterious Mother Lux of the Exalted March of Andraste. Or, rather, her representatives, as it seems she does not write. A new one every day, Brother Piers tells me, and the grand cleric has refused to read any more. She is always in the company of Lady Lyne, her cousin, who has been receiving her own letters.”

“And so they barricade themselves here.” Cassandra snorted. “I will see about that. Can you bring me these letters?”

“Possibly. She may not miss one or two.”

“I believe there is an alternate entrance to her rooms.” She turned back a few pages in Leliana’s notes and pointed to one of the drawings. “Does that look right?”

“Is that—” He craned his neck to look at the pages. His gaze returned to her and became speculative. “When we traveled with the Wardens, she was often writing. A hard habit to break, she said. I stole the book from her tent once—I have always been too curious, forgive me—but that code was impossible.”

Cassandra flipped the one on the desk shut.

“I put it back,” he went on quickly. “If you come across that one from the Blight, it is likely full of unflattering things about myself. And Oghren. If you know him? No? I wonder how the Wardens are treating—”

She cut him off. “I have not. Can you break in?”

“Forgive me,” he said again, “perhaps I am too familiar, now that she and you are Divine.” He stopped, rubbing at his neck. “Yes, Your Perfection. I would be a very poor former Crow if I could not.”

“Good,” she said, standing. “Leave by the window if you must, but come back by the door. I have had enough of this. I want a way to fight them.”

Zevran grinned again. “And I want to find you one. As the Maker wills it.” With a little flourish of a hand, he vaulted back out into the garden and was gone.

When the symbols started to confuse themselves in her head, Cassandra decided it was time to turn in. She replaced the notebooks she’d taken under Leliana’s floor tile, and slept fitfully under the heavy Nevarran canopy in her room.

The next morning, the grand clerics still had not shown themselves when the sun was well advanced. She locked the apartments behind her, told the queue of administrative sisters and bureaucrats waiting for an audience they would have to wait longer, and crossed the Cathedral to the priestly residence wing. Nadine followed at her heels again, lacking another protector.

Triana was one of those who rarely left the Cathedral to see her own chantry, and had claimed one of the grander suites of rooms. Cassandra heard voices inside and didn’t bother knocking.

In the surprised hush after the creak of the door, Triana’s companion was first to recover. She dropped from her chair to her knees, graying auburn hair hiding her face, and said, “Most Holy,” in a Starkhavener accent.

The grand cleric’s curtsy was slow. “I’m sure you will pardon these old knees, Your Holiness.” She came forward, small but commanding her side of the room, with a practiced grandmotherly smile. “I was told you had returned. But what brings Divine Valeria to my chambers?”

Cassandra wanted to demand an explanation for the closing of the gates. Instead, she remembered how Leliana questioned and held her tongue.

After a moment of silence, the grand cleric added, “The light of Most Holy’s regard is a welcome change.” It might have been obsequiousness or sarcasm. “Lady Lyne and I were just speaking of these barbarous heretics in the city. On the Chantry’s very doorstep, threatening the Maker’s true servants.” She waved a hand in the general direction of her door, light glinting on her rings. “What people are saying, it chills the blood.”

“And what is that?” Cassandra stepped into the room and nodded to Lady Lyne, who lifted her head.

Behind her, Nadine’s feet made a soft sound receding to the door.

Triana’s gaze shifted. “Oh, the promising rookery girl. No need to leave now, child. Such a treasure.” She peered up at Cassandra. “As I was saying, praise Him for your timing. We priests need walls and shields.”

Cassandra looked to Nadine. “Stand outside if you like.” The girl nodded, white-lipped, and slipped out.

She turned back. “Whatever your blood may feel, we are not under siege.”

“An old woman’s fear, Most Holy, with so few templars here. The heretics are said to be seizing people for their fires, accusing them with lies. The city guard is useless and finds nothing.”

“Our sweet prince himself is missing.” Lady Lyne’s voice was reedy from the corner. “Such a dear friend to the Chantry, so troubled in recent years.”

“Our sister in the Maker Victoire has also vanished, I fear to say,” Triana said. “Before the rumors began.” She put a hand to her mouth. “But surely she could not be with them.”

Giving these women rope to notionally hang themselves was tiring. She hoped Zevran found something useful in the letters.

“We must fight back, Most Holy, yes?” Triana was saying. “Now that you are here to lead a glorious charge.”

_And rid you of two problems at once?_ Cassandra looked out the window as the grand cleric and her cousin continued their litany of complaints and wheedling suggestions. The city was spread out below, blue and white and gold, wide avenues cutting through mazes of side streets. She’d have liked something to charge at.

“I suggest you stay here for now,” she said eventually, turning back. “Daughters. I will see you at sunset prayers. Good day.”

The remainder of the afternoon was taken up with the bureaucrats back at their apartments. She approved everything reasonable that Leliana could have no strong objection to, scheduled a review of the plan for drawing down the remaining templar forces, signed off on several knight-commander promotions, and put off the rest until it could be discussed.

As her sunset address in the grand sanctuary, she announced that the Grand Cathedral would shelter anyone threatened by those calling themselves the Exalted March.

And she directed the Cathedral mothers in finding places for them as they began to trickle in: elves and dwarves and their human friends, singers and players from the districts of ill repute, professors from the University of Orlais, people who wanted a place to sleep off the street. Empty halls and rooms filled with light and voices. Statues of Andraste and portraits of past Divines stared down at families huddled on hastily made pallets. Sisters and brothers passed through, keeping the peace and distributing meals.

If this self-styled Mother Lux took it as a thrown gauntlet, well and good, she thought, and increased the guard on the entrances.

Later that night, she was picking at her own tray of dinner that had cooled while she ignored it, puzzling out more of Leliana’s notes, when there was a knock on the outer door.

Nadine ran quietly to open it, having appointed herself door-answerer, for which Cassandra was thankful.

When she returned to the salon, she was followed by the two templar door guards, escorting two others: Zevran Arainai, still recognizable in a long hooded cloak, and a human woman, similarly dressed. The guards were casting dubious looks at both of them. “Most Holy,” the first said, “this elf says you are expecting him.”

“I am.”

“You see?” said Zevran. “You may take your hands off me at any time.”

The guards let go of them, bowed, and returned to the door. When they were gone, the woman stepped up to the fire and pushed her hood back, revealing the unexpected face of Leliana’s bard friend, who sang so well.

And whom Cassandra hadn’t meant to see kiss her, and had accused of trying to kill her, and that wasn’t awkward in the least.

“I found her hiding in an old safehouse of … Divine Victoria’s,” Zevran said.

“I have not been able to leave the city, Your Perfection,” said the woman. Phebe, she remembered. “What skill I have is at your disposal.”

Her voice was still musical. Irritated at herself, Cassandra tried to be gracious.

“Please.” She gestured to a sofa. “I cannot turn down any trustworthy help. As she says you are.”

“Thank you.” Phebe sat lightly.

“Speaking of trustworthy help,” Zevran announced, “I did not forget the grand cleric’s letters. Brother Piers slept soundly this evening.” He swept a hand out of his cloak and set a bundle of paper in front of her.

“Good,” Cassandra said. “Now, as I used to do in the Seekers, let us review the evidence.”

She ran down the list of main points: what they knew about the Exalted March of Andraste, their origins, their motives, their connections, the people involved. Then she divided the letters among them to read through for more information.

Zevran grinned and sat cross-legged before the hearth to read. Phebe accepted hers with a nod of her blonde head.

After a little while, Nadine approached from the corner as she was reading. “Most Holy? Can I help at all?”

“You have done enough.”

“I don’t want to be a burden,” she said with a resolute look. “No one ever taught me to fight, but I can read and write and listen and hide.”

“An excellent place to start,” Zevran commented from where he sat. “I came to the Crows with less. I could show you a few things.”

Nadine stepped to one side and turned red. Cassandra shot him a glare.

“About fighting,” he amended. “If she is to be a spy, she deserves training.”

“Perhaps,” Cassandra said. She liked the girl’s determination to make more of herself. “He is safe, despite appearances,” she told Nadine.

“Ah, you wound me,” Zevran said, turning a page.

Phebe was looking at hers intently. She lifted her head. “Most Holy, I have something.”

The letter she held out was grandiose in the style of the other Exalted March writings, and described a coming moment of triumph when they would strike a blow for the Maker against the two heads of the false Chantry. It ended with what could have been a threat or a promise to see the grand cleric there.

The ones dated after it returned to the same theme insistently, with unnerving references to Andraste’s apotheosis and accusations of betrayal and apostasy. The last few had not even been opened.

“Well, so much for the grand cleric.” Zevran got to his feet and helped himself to the brandy on the side table.

“Yes,” said Cassandra. “This is over her head. I see why she is cowering behind walls.”

She accepted a glass from him. “The question is, where are they planning it? If this Mother Lux can be found, she can be taken.”

“If you have the traitor in hand, Most Holy, why not get it out of her?” Phebe asked as Zevran handed her another.

“If her choices are their fires or execution for treason, who knows where she will jump.” Cassandra considered. “Unless I give her a third choice.”

She did not like the idea of making a deal with the woman who had conspired to kill them, succeeded in hurting Leliana and three innocent guards, ineptly called down this scourge on the city, and then lied and condescended to her about it. But it was the most direct way.

Nevarra City still needed an anchorite, she recalled. The Necropolis had very strong walls, and plenty of silence for contemplating one’s mistakes.

The bard set her glass on the wide arm of her chair and leaned forward. “I have some small talent for persuasion and disguise. If she tells you where they are, I can get in.”

“Other agents of the Left Hand were meant to be infiltrating. Could you contact them?”

“I know some of her procedures.”

Impressive, but she wouldn’t have expected less. Cassandra stood. “Do what you can tonight, both of you. I will speak to the grand cleric further tomorrow.”

“May I go with them, Most Holy?” Nadine asked in a small voice as the two spies gathered themselves to leave.

Phebe glanced back and smiled. “I can keep an eye on her, too.” The girl fetched her cloak.

When they had gone, the apartments were almost silent. No guests, no attendants, no servants or messengers or pets.

Cassandra found herself drifting back into Leliana’s room, wishing she were there to handle this, hoping she wasn’t rushing in the wrong way again.

And then it was too easy to remember doing that before, uncomfortably. She wasn’t jealous, or perhaps she was, but then there were the nightingale and the notebooks and the other little things that whispered _what if you don’t have to be._

Too much of a question, when she liked answers. There were none here, yet. She turned and left the room.

 

* * *

 

For days, Leliana had been trying to get consensus on the issue of Seekers assisting the mages. Vivienne was unexpectedly supportive. Fiona agreed in spirit, she said—“there is no question of their general value, Most Holy”—but had quibble after quibble with the details. The other Libertarians scoffed, and one Aequitarian had a friend of a friend at the Dairsmuid Circle, and “the old Lord Seeker was replaced by a demon” was not exactly helping to support her side.

Now they were in recess, and she had the night to come up with something else persuasive. She walked down the steps and through the courtyard, thinking out loud under her breath.

Naturally, her best argument for it wasn’t here, and she could blame herself (or the Exalted March; there was enough to go around) for that.

The armory was quiet and cold this evening, neat weapon racks glinting in the dim light from the windows, but no one at the furnaces. She wandered up the stairs. The landing was cleared out: no traces except some marks in the wood that might have been made by anyone.

Leliana leaned on the wall and tried to conjure her up to argue with, then felt silly. They’d discussed it, she knew where Cassandra stood, it was straightforward. If she were there she’d say the same.

_If she were here we could have a proper debate and—_

_And nothing, you decided._

That choice had felt so righteous and selfless and Divine-appropriate in the altered state of the pilgrimage, but in hindsight, with distance, it was seeming more and more like regular cowardice.

_Stop it,_ she told herself. _You’ll never convince the mages of anything if you’re still too busy with the deep implications of whether she might fancy you really. Maker, you might as well turn around three times and throw an apple peel over your shoulder for your true love’s initials._

Then she thought, _I_ would _have good odds that way_ , and snorted.

_She was handling worse things than reactionaries in her cradle. She’s probably relieved to be away after that trip. Get hold of yourself, Your Holiness._

Leliana took the stairs at an ungraceful pace going down.

As she let the armory door close behind her, she was waylaid by Merrill and the Inquisitor.

“Most Holy, there you are,” said Merrill, excited. “I don’t know if you’re—”

“Looking for something?” Ida asked.

“Oh, I was … thinking of borrowing a bow. It’s never bad to stay in form, no? Stay sharp.”

“I’d want to shoot something too in your place,” Ida said. “You know where we keep the good stuff.” She pointed to the Undercroft entrance.

“Maybe later. But you were saying?” She glanced at Merrill.

“Yes. If you’re interested, a few of the others and I are trying a sort of experiment?”

Merrill led the way back up to the garden, and into the storage room where Morrigan had left the eluvian—now empty of everything except the mirror itself, uncovered and towering over three Inquisition mages who conferred on their knees at its base. They were drawing a diagram on the floor around it.

“I was thinking,” Merrill said, “that this needs some kind of seal, or we’re risking uninvited guests every minute.”

“I had worried about that,” Ida said. “Who-knows-what coming out into our garden. Morrigan never mentioned it. And these Venatori-come-lately ...”

Merrill gave a small sigh and leaned on her staff. “I wish I’d not missed her. Morrigan. I have so many questions. But, anyway, this should keep the who-knows-what in. Or it’s meant to. If it works.”

She turned to the other mages and helped them finish tracing the last symbols. Then the four of them took up positions around the mirror and concentrated. Merrill began to speak, a long chain of elven words that seemed to need precise enunciation, and the lines on the floor began to glow. As the others echoed her, light rose from them in a circle, forming a wall that grew higher and brighter while the flow of words continued and grew more complex.

Merrill stumbled over a syllable once or twice and the wall of light flickered, but recovered, inching up to seal itself over the top of the eluvian. Then she raised her staff and said a final sentence, and it flared so bright it left afterimages in Leliana’s eyes.

When it subsided again to a dull shimmer, Merrill was beaming. “There! That should hold, I hope. Nothing from inside can get through, unless we say so.”

“It would be trapped between the mirror and the field?” Leliana asked, and Merrill nodded. “That could be useful.”

“I like it,” Ida said. “We should keep you.”

Merrill laughed. “Well, I’m not ready to go home yet.”

As she and the other three mages began cleaning up after the ritual, Leliana walked back out with Ida.

“There’s a report of something weird down in the Exalted Plains that might not be your Venatori, but could be,” Ida said, pushing the side door open and holding it for her. “I’m going to head out with a crew tomorrow. Lots of old elfy shit there, to quote Sera.”

“There is,” Leliana said, slipping through. “And a source who has reason to know tells me they’re likely to act again soon. Good luck. I can’t speak for the Stone, but go with the Maker’s blessing.”

“I’ll take it.” Ida grinned up at her. “And I won’t tell any mages where you went, if you want a break.”

She did. Eventually she did take herself to the Undercroft, and then up a certain way she knew, with a bow Dagna said was a prototype and a quiver of cheap arrows. There was a spot on the back side of one of the roofs that looked out on the valley and was hidden from most lines of sight.

The view was lovely with the sun coming down behind the mountain, the sky pale and open overhead. A withered pine clung to a snowy rock spire a good distance from her.

She framed the target with her hand and tested the wind, adjusted her feet, strung the bow, and began to shoot methodically.

It was simple. Arrows cutting air. Burn in her arms. Deep breath, exhale halfway, hold, release.

The first three hit the snow too far away. She was shamefully out of practice.

But archery was like prayer: hold one thought, let go, and hope the Maker heard you.

Dagna’s bow was ironwood and metal in the severely beautiful dwarven style, and felt good in her hands.

It was like spycraft too, she reflected. Arranging conditions, acting, waiting.

The next one hit beside the tree; so that was the range.

She worked her way through most of the quiver, falling into a rhythm, arrows and thoughts about mage demands and blood mages and fanatics and traitors and back to whatever might be happening in Val Royeaux.

It was darker in the eastern sky, her target becoming a silhouette. Josephine might be looking for her for dinner.

_Why did I almost catch her up in my foolishness? She’ll never ask, but she doesn’t deserve it. I don’t deserve such a friend._

The trunk was well studded with arrows by now.

_But one doesn’t turn down gifts from the Maker they don’t deserve. Unless one is a very great fool indeed._

Pick up another, exhale, draw. Unwilling memory of telling Cassandra to go that night in Amaranthine, and her face before she agreed to, and what that had felt like.

_Maker’s breath, that split second when she looked betrayed._

Her fingers clenched and spoiled the release. She let the bow drop, easing off the string.

_And I was scared. Admit it, am scared._

Another memory: that silly fight before, one of many, her angry and saying We can’t keep so much from each other, and a note in it that sounded different now.

She closed her eyes. The wind off the cliffs was cold in her ears.

_People want to kill us either way. Let go of plausible deniability for once. If there’s anyone I owe the truth, it’s her._

She raised it again, shot, watched the arrow arc through the fading light and hit the tree.

_There._

She slung the bow and mostly empty quiver over her shoulder.

_Whatever she says to it, we both decide._

She didn’t feel clear and righteous and all-knowing now, far from it, but she climbed carefully back over the roof and down to the wall, into the dark lee of the tower.

When she came in through the balcony door, Charter just nodded, unsurprised, and got up silently from the table.

Nothing was quite where she had kept it, but most of the birds she’d helped train and name were still there.

She took a quill and a message slip.

_There is something I wanted to tell you in Amaranthine,_ she wrote after a few anodyne questions.

~~_And Antiva, and Kirkwall, and Tantervale, and Nevarra and Val Royeaux and and and_ ~~

_When I see you next,_

~~_make me say it_ ~~

~~_don’t let me_~~

_hold me to it._

She took a breath, copied the short lines out clean in her personal cipher, and rolled it up before she could second-guess again.

The draft went into the candle and caught quickly. The other, out into the night on the strongest Val Royeaux bird.

_It’s in the Maker’s hands now_ _,_ she thought, and laughed a little hectically. _Can’t change your mind again._

_Unless you want to have it intercepted and prove yourself an even bigger coward. No, it’s done._

On the stairs down, she nodded to Charter. In the absurdly oversized bed in her room, she tossed and turned.

 

* * *

 

After an escort to one of the secure rooms in the cellars and a none too gentle review of the proof against her, Triana had sat with her nose in the air and refused to admit to anything. But she did take the out, agreeing to step down as grand cleric and retire to Nevarra, as if she were doing Cassandra a favor and the Grand Necropolis were one of the beauty spots of Thedas. The woman might not have the spine for plotting, but her audacity was admirable.

She also—eventually—provided a list of places where the Exalted March leaders might be hiding, claiming she’d been meaning to pass it along since she came across it.

Cassandra had put her on house arrest in one of the ordinary dormitory cells with no guests allowed, made it known that she’d left the city, and then moved quickly before the co-conspirators could learn otherwise.

Phebe had gone to seek out Mother Lux with a plausible but risky story she insisted on, about being a former associate of Divine Victoria’s who wanted to denounce her. Zevran was working on the outside to make contact with Leliana’s other agents, using what Cassandra had gleaned from her notes. The city guard were ready to move on her call when they had a time and location for the cultists’ moment of triumph, whatever it was.

And now, she was waiting for it. Not one of her strengths.

She’d already demolished four dummies in the templars’ training yard that week, and there was nothing in the rooms crying out for dismemberment. She settled on taking apart and meticulously cleaning her favorite armor from Skyhold, with the hearts the smith had worked into the pauldrons and greaves.

Cassandra was half done when someone knocked on the doors. She called for them to enter, and the guards brought in a novice with the afternoon’s messages.

“Bring those here,” she said to the boy, who picked his way through the armor pieces on the salon floor to place a small handful of slips in her hand, then retreated quickly.

He’d brought three with the colors of different Orlesian cities, one with none, and one from Skyhold. She got to her feet and opened the last, puzzling it out as she walked into the other room.

Needlessly cryptic, even for Leliana, for the sake of five sentences saying nothing. Except for the lines that worked out to _something I meant to tell you_ and _hold me to it_ , blotted like she’d done it quickly.

That seemed to be the only point of it. Nothing about the mages, or the Inquisition, or the progress here. She scanned through it again, walking faster to stave off the curious frisson over what in the Maker’s name Leliana would need to ask her to tell her to say.

_Some joke of hers_ , she told herself. _You will, evidently, find out._

This didn’t help. She shook her head, pocketed it for now, and opened the message without colors.

Finally: Phebe’s crisp writing and the time and place to move.

The next night they assembled—a handful of stealthier templars she’d handpicked, another of city guards, and herself, because she intended to see this done—armed under old clerical robes and cloaks, faces hidden by merchants’ and servants’ masks. It was a laughable disguise, but it didn’t need to last long.

The time was second moonrise and the place the tournament grounds beyond the city wall, vacant for the winter. When they came to the small gate nearby, they found it hanging unlocked, with no guard.

The sergeant of the guards with her cursed and then apologized.

Cassandra brushed it off and pushed through the gate. The road was well marked with footprints, but there was no telling if they were from the day’s traffic or the trail of a host of Marchers. The small shield on her back shifted against her mail, sounds muted by the cloak that she hoped covered it.

As they approached a copse of trees, a figure stepped out in front of them. She held up a hand to stop the others and pulled her hood over her face. Then a second figure appeared, moving diffidently, and the first removed the bird mask that hid his ears.

“Very funny,” she said to Zevran, letting the hood go. “Why did you bring her?”

“She is catching on astonishingly, and she refused to stay behind.”

Cassandra sighed and it came out half a growl. “Keep well back,” she told Nadine. “Run if I tell you to run.”

“Yes, Most Holy,” the girl said from behind her own mask. Orlais did make covert operations easier than they had to be.

At the tournament grounds, through the trees, watchers were spaced out in not-very-well-hidden locations to form a loose perimeter. Zevran feigned being surprised by a man who dropped from a branch overhead, and gave the countersign Triana had described.

The man waved them forward, muttering, “Praise Andraste.”

_Indeed_ , she thought as she passed him, head down, controlling her indignation at their use of the Lady’s name.

Inside the perimeter, on the field that in summer was used for the melee, people with torches and lanterns moved about, and dark clusters of others waited and murmured.

More people than she had assumed. Most would be unarmed, untrained, drawn in by lies. _Maker, let them freeze when the time comes and be easily taken._

The torches illuminated several stakes with logs piled around them and figures tied to them, a few struggling, others limp. The colors of a grand cleric’s robe appeared in one prominent spot of light. Victoire?

As their party moved closer through the silhouetted crowd, the cleric’s voice became audible. She was one of the struggling, and had spat out her gag to lecture her captors. They were arguing over who would replace it.

Cassandra found more respect for her in that moment. Leliana would hardly believe this.

A lantern-bearer passed in front of her, and she lowered her eyes. The muttered talk from the onlookers was all of Mother Lux, when she would speak, what would happen, sounding excited and afraid. Some clutched objects, likely for burning in their ritual.

Then, more torches flared in one of the bare tournament boxes on their stilts above the field. Three women in yellow robes stood at the rail, backlit by a red glow. One held up her hands for quiet.

With the intonation and projection of a chanter, she recited: “Those who oppose thee shall know the wrath of heaven. Field and forest shall burn, the seas shall rise and devour them.”

The second woman picked up the verse, voice ringing with emotion. “The wind shall tear their nations from the face of the earth! Lightning shall rain down from the sky! They shall cry out to their false gods and find silence!”

“Our most revered mother had to withdraw from her people for a while,” the third woman called, in a northern Free Marches accent, “but she is ready to return to you.”

It was good theater. In the buzz of whispers after that, Cassandra turned to the guard sergeant and the lead knight-captain and pulled them in so her words would not carry. “On my mark, all of you to the stakes, then you to the gate for the reinforcements.” She glanced at Zevran. “Bring the agents out of cover. Keep the people back. Try not to kill anyone.”

Then all the other voices died as an out-of-place but familiar nightmare stepped into the light at the front of the box.

The red lyrium she’d guessed at, but not that it was so far advanced. Mother Lux’s pale face was twisted around pulsing, glowing crystals, her torso and limbs grown to twice human size. Jagged claws sprouted from her hands and feet. Whatever her name had been in the Kirkwall chantry, no one would recognize her now.

“And _that_?” Zevran asked in an undertone, tilting his bird-face beside her.

“Mine.”

This would be a real fight after all. The cool exhilaration of focus on the single task of battle spread through her body.

Lux, or the creature she had become, grasped the rail with red-veined hands. Her voice was a roar across the field, and her eyes glowed. “I prayed for change, and the Maker has changed me! I prayed for purity, and I have been purified! I prayed for holy dominion, and His light shall shine upon all creation when we are strong enough to carry it!”

Some of the faces in the crowd were dazzled. Others looked terrified. All were frozen.

“These fires will carry the light to the darkness of the false Chantry!” she bellowed, sweeping an arm out.

Cassandra took a breath and centered herself. Then she said, “Now,” and strode forward, quickly, toward the box.

Her hood fell back. Babble from the audience followed her. One of the women with the torches shouted something.

As she came to the edge of the crowd, she shrugged off the cloak and stared up into the glowing red eyes.

When her face registered, the former cleric let out a manic, earsplitting scream of rage and lunged forward away from her acolytes, splintering the rail of the tournament box in her leap.

More screams. People milled around her. “Get back!” Cassandra called. The creature roared things like apostate and upstart and puppet at her, with no seeming awareness of irony, and she advanced, holding its attention.

There was an explosion behind her. She glanced back to see a cloud of colored smoke rising around the stakes and her guards running through it. The small figure of Zevran threw another smoke bomb and blotted himself out.

Mother Lux shrieked at her panicking followers. Cassandra hauled the shield off her back and onto her arm.

She concentrated and felt the Maker answer, the circle of true light springing up around her, vitality surging.

Where the light touched the red lyrium, a crack crept up through one crystal, and Lux shrieked again, sinking her claws into the ground.

Cassandra drew her sword and moved, pressing her with the shield and the light, herding her away from the crowd as it broke up and spread. Under the box, then beyond it, then onto the dirt of the empty jousting field where all she could see was the red glow of her opponent.

Rearing up over her, Lux swiped at her with both hands. She dodged and hammered the shield into the creature’s side, knocking her off balance. Lux fell sideways, the whites of her eyes showing, her face looking human and fearful for a second before the fury returned.

Then she roared and jumped at Cassandra, knocking her back in turn, massive weight bearing down on her shield arm.

Lux’s face loomed over hers, teeth bared. The crystal splitting her forehead throbbed with sick redness. Cassandra butted her head into the grinning face, making her squeal and jerk. More lyrium cracked. Where it touched her, it seared. Her breath hissed in her teeth. “Oathbreaker.” Lux pushed with unnatural strength, crushing her arm into her chest. “The Maker will cast you down.”

The fear she’d been carrying, from that blighted mouth, just then sounded as meaningless as its other insults.

Cassandra prayed, and a bolt of dazzling brightness shot down between their faces. She pushed back, hard. The balance shifted.

Roaring and thrashing, Lux stumbled away, hands to her eyes. She gave chase, the Maker’s light singing through her as she had not felt in months.

She didn’t want to kill her. The woman, to the extent that she was one, should have a trial. Although death might be kinder, from what the templars with Samson had said.

She parried a wild claw swipe. They were well out into the field now, far from the stakes. She heard battle cries of “For Val Royeaux! For the Lion!” behind her, coming closer. The reinforcements? Then someone started up with “Valeria!”

Lux’s eyes lifted to the space behind, and she charged past Cassandra, who spun to see the second chanter from the box running toward her with an expression of fearless insanity, templars and guards on her heels.

The woman held a small knife, in a grip like she’d only ever used it in the kitchen. Her revered leader, no longer discerning between followers and enemies, was about to tear into her and everyone behind her.

Cassandra dropped to one knee and reached out for the lyrium in Mother Lux’s body. It was hard to miss, but sickening to hold, not like the radiance of pure lyrium.

Her guts twisted and her vision blurred in a red haze as she forced energy into it, asking the Maker to stop her. She thought of all the chaos this woman had caused and held fast, although it burned on her side as well.

The behemoth that was Lux screamed again in frustrated rage and her knees buckled. She seized the closest target as she went down heavily. Blood stained the sister’s robe and she fell, dropping her knife.

The other acolyte, coming up behind her sister, cried, “No!” only to be tackled from behind by a guardswoman.

Cassandra resisted the urge to empty her stomach in the dirt and stood again, maintaining her hold on the lyrium. “Bind her, now,” she managed to say to the guards now surrounding them. “Then the others.”

Once they had chains on Mother Lux and pulled the wounded chanter out of her grasp, Cassandra let go. The euphoria of battle and divine favor was still carrying her above her own injuries.

After the double shock of their monstrous leader’s appearance and defeat, the followers still standing were confused and easily herded away from the scene, as she’d hoped. Zevran and the few agents of the Left Hand who’d been in the crowd had cut down most of the captives from the stakes when she returned.

Most were just people who had crossed the Exalted March in some way—elves and dwarves who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, a shopkeeper who had argued with them, a lost mage they had kept drugged. At the front they had placed their prizes: Grand Cleric Victoire, several Starkhaven court officials, and the missing prince himself, Sebastian Vael, now wrapped in a cloak and looking hollow-eyed and drawn.

There was also Phebe, still trying to free herself from one of the stakes at the back. She’d worked her hands half out of the ropes, but a few loops still trapped them. Cassandra told her to stop and then cut the rope.

The bard rubbed her wrists, making a moue, and pushed back her flyaway hair. “I was about to regret volunteering.”

“You have all the gratitude of the Chantry. And mine.”

“Long story short, they got too suspicious at the last minute.” She climbed down from the stake, shuddering. “I really need a change of scene. I’m horribly late for engagements in the east, so if I have leave to go …”

“Yes. But—”

“That’s really all I want, Your Holiness.”

Very direct, for a bard. All Cassandra could say to that was, “Well, then. Go with the Maker.”

She heard someone behind her, and turned, as Phebe grinned and headed away into the dark.

Victoire was approaching with a good semblance of her usual haughty walk, despite her tattered robes and a slight limp.

She curtsied deeply and formally. “I have forgiveness to ask of you.”

“You are hurt. It can wait.”

Victoire looked up and shook her head. “I remember the Ten-Year Gathering, you know. I must say I never expected to owe that girl my life a second time. I should be too old for irresponsibility, yes? What can I do to assist you both, Most Holy?”

“Remember everything that happened to you here and write it down.” She thought. “And anything you know about other clerics’ dealings with them, as well. And be ready to testify to it in council. And do not leave the city.”

All their stories would have to be recorded. Leliana would want to know the prince’s in particular, and maybe question him herself, and would be tracking the remains of the cult across Thedas for as long as they lasted. Still, without red lyrium and political conspiracy to drive them, they would be much diminished.

She gave Victoire her hand and helped her up.

Something had gone right, for once.

On the way back, the feeling of light stayed with her. It was hard to believe the Maker’s disapproval when her connection with that fire and radiance persisted; she should have been tired, but it lifted her.

Zevran followed her, with Nadine now following him. She’d lost her mask and excitement was written all over her face as she admired the dagger she’d used to help free captives. “We will have to discuss some proper training for you when Divine Victoria returns,” Cassandra said.

“I think she will be sorry to have missed all the fun.” Zevran nodded to the field behind them.

“Perhaps.”

“Well, I, for one, am considering it a great operational success.” He offered her his arm as they walked toward the city wall. She didn’t take it, but she was feeling too good just then for a retort.

After she had managed the disposition of the cultists and former captives, back in the Cathedral, back in the palace wing, it was still carrying her, right up to the second message with Skyhold colors waiting on her desk.

What now? She set down her shield and broke the seal with a rush of anticipation. Another clue to Leliana’s cryptic something? Were the negotiations nearly done?

It was in block letters, splattered and hasty:

_Skyhold under attack. Rifts and demons inside the keep. All recipients send help. Charter, for the Inquisition._

The light and strength drained out of her. She put a hand on the wall to stay standing.

 

* * *

 

It began with the bird battering itself against the inside of Merrill’s warding field. Calpernia’s unnatural eagle, having somehow navigated the eluvian network, its eyes madder and greener than before. It circled the mirror and dove into the field, struck it and rebounded, shedding feathers. Then it peered into the air and tried again, screeching.

Several of the mages from the delegation were gathered around the ward, watching it, along with Sera, bow in one hand, and Dagna, staring curiously at the magic field.

“It belongs to the magister Calpernia,” said Leliana. “I don’t know how it got here, but it may be carrying a message.”

“Her?” said Sera. “Sure you want to let it out? I could shoot it.”

“I sympathize, but no.”

The heavy door creaked open and Merrill squeezed through. “What is it? I’m sorry, I was—oh.”

Leliana explained again. Merrill touched the ward and the eagle swooped for the opening she made, nearly missing her fingers with its talons.

Hoping it might land on her glove, Leliana held out her hand, but instead it circled and flew toward the door, and then again, as if trying to communicate.

The eagle turned its head and screamed, and suddenly the air filled with an indescribable sound that was half audible, half sensation, a tearing that made all Leliana’s senses recoil. Gooseflesh rose on her skin. She scrambled for the door.

In the garden, people chained together were falling through a hole in the air that shimmered green like a miniature Breach. After them came a wagon that was a cage holding more people, landing heavily beside the well. The sound—the Veil tearing?—had shifted to a humming vibration that felt no less wrong.

She hadn’t seen any of the other Fade rifts in person, but this could be nothing else. The chained people screamed. Atop the wagon, several cloaked figures were getting to their feet beside a mass of machinery. She had seen them, in Calpernia’s crystal back in Kirkwall.

The eagle screeched again from near the ceiling, as if to confirm her thought.

Sera pushed into the doorway next to her, in front of Dagna. “Andraste’s tits, I thought we’d done them all.”

Merrill was staring at the wagon, knuckles white on her staff. She muttered something in the elven tongue.

The vibration felt like it was inside Leliana’s bones. She shuddered. “The Elder One will rise again!” shouted one of the cloaked men. “The world will feed him! The new age cannot be stopped!” He was holding a chained elf now, a knife to his throat over the machine. Through the rift behind him, a misty gray landscape was visible.

“Piss off!” Sera yelled.

Leliana seized the bow from Sera’s hand, nocked one of her arrows, and put it through the man’s neck.

The elf ripped himself away and jumped down, running for the garden wall. The Venatori keeled over into his own machine, bleeding. His companions whirled and cried out in Tevene. “Oh, no,” Merrill said.

A different horrible noise rose up from the wagon then. Leliana’s stomach sank as she was thankful she wasn’t close enough to see.

“We should really get back.” Merrill tugged at her sleeve.

The rift pulsed. Power arced between it and the wagon. The others raised their staffs and began to chant something.

Green flares sprang up in a flowerbed, on a path, under one of the red-leafed trees, gouging its trunk in half. Forms began to solidify within them with long spindly limbs and teeth.

Before the nearest one could turn and see them, Leliana pulled everyone back behind the door and thrust the bar down.

It was hard to think with that humming rattling her skull. The Inquisitor was gone, with the Chargers. She had Sera and Dagna and Merrill and four other mages. On the other side of the demons, Maker, were Josephine and all the other innocents in the castle. But also Cullen and the small garrison, if she could get to them.

“I need a diversion,” she said.

“They must have torn their own path out from behind the mirrors where the Veil is thin.” Merrill was wringing her hands. “I should have realized—”

“I have a little something that should be diverting,” Dagna said, patting her pocket. “If you get me to the Undercroft, I can get more.”

“The rest of us can hold this room, Your Holiness,” said one of the Aequitarians, looking at the other mages. “Keep them from reaching this eluvian to get away.”

Leliana nodded, aware of the sacrifice they might be making, resolving not to let that happen during her negotiations. “I will be back with help.”

Sera held the quiver of arrows out to her. “You take this. I’ll take you, Widdle.” She grinned and crouched down. “Come on.” Dagna gripped her shoulders and climbed on piggyback-fashion as though they’d practiced this before.

When they cracked the door open again, the chained prisoners were huddling against the wagon in the midst of a circle of terror demons and green lightning.

Sera inched out quietly, back to the wall. Dagna removed something small and round from her pocket and lobbed it toward one side of the circle.

When it struck the ground, there was a deafening concussive blast. Stones and dirt flew, tree branches fell, a cloud of dust rose and hid the closest demons.

Leliana made a dash for it through the darkness of the stone arcade, Sera following, and the eagle swooped out overhead before the door banged shut. One of the Venatori called out something, and the demons wheeled back around and pursued with bounding strides.

Along the ivy-covered arches she went, from cover to cover.

“I adapted these from that gizmo you sent us,” Dagna shouted, tossing another ball, and the boom shook the roof. “With some extra tweaks. Pretty good, right?”

“Very.” Leliana turned and put another arrow straight into a demon’s eye. Its head jerked back and it fell.

“Fuck me, you can go first anytime too, Your Scariness.” Sera’s grin had not subsided as she ran, though she was breathing hard.

They dodged and ducked as the Venatori sent bolts of energy through the arches. Leliana shot back from behind the pillars. There was one more explosion; then Dagna yelled that she was out and Sera set her down so they could both run.

On the other side, the second door to the great hall refused to open. Leliana pounded on it and called. As the skittering sounds and demon screams of pursuit grew closer, there was a heavy scraping and Josephine pulled it open. “Quick!”

She and Vivienne pushed the trestle table back in front of the door.

“What in the Maker’s name is going on?”

“Mages opened a rift,” Sera said. “Demons and all. Must be mad as hatters.”

“What? What mages?” Vivienne raised an eyebrow. “A Fade rift?”

“Former Venatori with very bad timing who missed their first chance to die,” Leliana said, putting another arrow to her string. “Josie, please, gather the castle folk and get out across the causeway.” Something thudded against the door, and a scratching sound became audible through the boards. “That won’t hold long.”

Vivienne raised a hand in the air and a glowing sword manifested in front of her. “It will,” she said. “Bring that knight-captain of yours, if you find her, Most Holy.”

Sera and Dagna made for the Undercroft, holding hands as they ran. Leliana gave Vivienne a nod and hurried in the opposite direction.

These men might choose to burn out their lives for love of their very dead master, but no one else’s was on the table today. Not their prisoners’ and not her friends’ and not hers. Especially not without an answer to that letter.

She nearly ran into Cullen on the wall outside, crossing with Ser Elaine behind him and the eagle diving and snapping at their heads.

“What just happened? That sound—”

She gave him the quick explanation. “The keep is compromised. Get the soldiers you have, as many as you have. Elaine, I will need you.”

He saluted her and hastened for the courtyard, shouting for his men.

Back in the hall, Vivienne had let the first terror through and left it in parts at her feet. More were scratching on the other side of the door, but magic now shimmered over the wood.

“Shall we push through?” she asked coolly, touching the door to reinforce it. “How many are there, exactly?”

Leliana described the scene in the garden. “There will be more now. I doubt they can truly call Corypheus’s spirit back, but they will do enough damage trying.”

Vivienne nodded. “And we lack the Inquisitor to close it. She must be sent for, as fast as may be.”

Inquisition mages were appearing from the library, gathering around them. Cooks, maids, and stablefolk were hurrying out as Josephine directed and reassured them. “Charter has sent birds and riders,” she called.

“So we must hold them off,” Leliana said. “Skyhold will not fall now.”

Something heavy forced itself against the door with a long creak. Strain crossed Vivienne’s face for a second before it withdrew.

She wished she’d made time for one of the Inquisitor’s excursions when she had the chance. Her knowledge of the rifts was all from field reports that differed widely in usefulness. Cassandra had grumbled often about how the type of demon couldn’t be predicted until they were on you, and how she hated the flying ones.

But this wasn’t an ordinary rift, either. The mages were feeding it with blood, and drawing from it. If they could be separated from it—

Cullen burst in, sword drawn, ten soldiers behind him. “The garrison is following,” he said.

They were looking to her for direction. How could she rally them?

“We must surround them, yes?” she said, thinking quickly. “Mages to seal the other exits, and the rest inside to beat back the demons. Archers on the walls above.”

For one of the first times since the Blight, there was a song in the back of her mind, growing like a battle cry. She’d always believed they came from the Maker and she was merely the channel, but she couldn’t explain it any more than Cassandra could explain what she did.

“Most Holy,” Cullen said, moving to the door, bringing fist to chest again.

She made the gesture of blessing over all of them and began to hum, under her breath, feeling out the tune she was given.

Determination unfolded on the soldiers’ and mages’ faces.

Vivienne dissolved her ward, and they pushed through.

The garden was unrecognizable: thick smoke and lightning and eerie unfocused green glow filling the space outside the arches, broken stone and fallen trees everywhere. The soldiers fought as one, forming a shield wall and hacking at demon bodies when they appeared. Leliana shot over their heads at the same targets and didn’t stop singing. Words came to her. She heard others take up the song, defiantly, and it bound them together.

She couldn’t see the Venatori or hear their ravings anymore, but there were only so many places for them to go. The soldiers began to press forward.

She saw a bright flash and a red glow and heard shouts from the far side of the garden. She advanced past the line of soldiers, into the smoke, striding through the fallen branches and rubble with an arrow at the ready, and they followed her. Another small terror jumped at her, raking her shoulder with bright lines of pain. She released without thought into its body, and it retreated back out of sight.

She passed under the rift, skirting a wide dark stain on the ground where the wagon had been, but it was no longer there and neither were the Venatori. Pulsing threads of power led out of the rift, through the smoke, in several directions.

When they reached the far side, the door of the storage room was half down and there was a rage demon half in, half out, burning away at it. She reached for another arrow, winced at the pain in her shoulder, managed to draw it anyway, advancing on the demon.

She shot, and it roared and twisted itself to face her as the arrow burnt to ash. Inside the room Merrill and the Circle mages rallied again. She took another step toward it and shot again to keep its attention. Ser Elaine raced up to put her shield between the demon and Leliana, but by then the mages had unleashed a barrage of ice and it was already shrinking and expiring.

“Most Holy Victoria. You came yourself.” The Libertarian who said it looked surprised.

“You’re bleeding,” said Elaine with concern. Merrill stepped through the broken door and touched her shoulder. “May I?”

She nodded and then shivered at the slithering, stinging sensation of cuts sealing themselves, but when she tested her arm, she could draw the bow with less pain.

Cries and roars came from behind. The soldiers had engaged a new cluster of demons beneath the rift. “A guard on this room as well,” she said to Cullen, who had come up beside her. She looked back to the mages in their singed robes. “We can get you out of here.”

The Libertarian was still staring, but the Aequitarian said decisively, “No. We will help.” The mage lifted her hem as she stepped over the remains of the demon, then raised her hands and closed her eyes. A wind rose, and the smoke started to blow away, revealing the small space of the garden in the stark morning light.

The Venatori’s wagon-cage lay skewed to one side beside the steps to the chapel. Four fat umbilicals of power emerged through the chapel door and arced back to the shifting green of the rift, above the garrison soldiers and Vivienne, laying about her with her spectral blade. Inquisition archers atop the walls, now with a clear view, leaned forward.

Leliana ran to the wagon, with the knight-captain behind her. Slumped forms lay inside it. Muffled chanting came through from the chapel.

She picked the cage lock and pulled the nearest figure toward her. In the same moment, Calpernia’s eagle dropped out of the sky and was on her, wings beating and feathers flying.

Then she recognized the tight pale braid of hair and black Tevinter dress. The pulse still beat in the magister’s neck, but slowly. With Elaine’s help, she heaved the unconscious body onto the steps. Before she could shout for more assistance, the eagle descended onto Calpernia’s chest, screaming, and its eyes flared bright green, and then hers snapped open.

Calpernia got to her feet smoothly as if nothing had happened, the bird lighting on her shoulder. “At long last.” She picked her way to the chapel door and touched it, the ripple of magic revealing another shield over it. “If you’re done wasting time, _Your Perfection_ , I suggest acting before they do worse.”

She closed her eyes and walked her black-gloved hand along the door, and the ripple followed it.

“How is she here?” Vivienne’s voice came from over Leliana’s shoulder. The other delegation mages stood with her, staring daggers at Calpernia.

“I would ask the same,” said Cullen on the other side of her, sword drawn.

Calpernia met Vivienne’s gaze. “A regrettable accident. I care nothing for you, but your enemy is mine, as your Divine Victoria knows.”

The rift flashed its green lightning again.

Vivienne looked her up and down. Calpernia returned the look with just as much hauteur and sniffed. “I surrender to her for the time being, if that satisfies you. It will not be long.”

“Accepted,” said Leliana. “Watch her, yes, but we need to get through that door.”

With the combined effort of the former Circle mages, who would not allow Calpernia to assist, and four soldiers using a stone bench as a ram, the door creaked, buckled, and finally shattered into splinters, magic and wood giving way violently together.

The four green channels of power jumped and writhed, but the mages on the ends of them did not react, seeming entranced in the ritual they were performing. The chapel floor was alive with lines of blood that flowed across the tiles on their own, outlining occult patterns that crawled and shifted. Leliana’s stomach turned as she remembered the chantry in the dead village.

The surviving prisoners were huddling around the statue of Andraste, some humans, many elves. The chain that bound them snaked forward into the center of the blood pattern and fed into the mages’ hideous machine.

Then one of the Venatori turned toward her with a blank green stare, and a second, thicker shield materialized inside the door. At the same time, there was a crackling flash and a boom from the rift behind them.

“Pride demon!” Cullen shouted. “Inquisition, to me!”

They sheared off, leaving her with the mages and Elaine. Gears turned, and the chain ratcheted forward. A cry went up from the prisoners, and the man in front tried to brace himself. The woman behind him was praying.

Anger and horror on her face, the knight-captain charged through the doorway and knelt before the shield. Leliana recognized her attempt before the light came down, but instead of being purged, the twisted green energy rebounded in a burst that knocked Elaine back to the wall. She lay unmoving, armor scorched, but breathing.

“It was too much for her.” Vivienne crossed the threshold. “We must unmake it precisely or face the same. Come, there isn’t time.”

Merrill and the other mages joined her. Calpernia stood like a black carving, watching the Venatori intently. The chain wound forward again.

Holding Elaine’s wrist, Leliana glanced through the door. Outside, the pride demon towered over Cullen and his men. Arrows came down on its head, and Sera and Dagna ran circles around the demon with explosions in their wake.

The uncanny hum of the rift filled the air even inside the chapel. No one was looking at her, except the prisoners, whose eyes were wide and pleading. The man in front, with only a few feet of chain left, looked hopeless.

_What can I do? Maker, give me something._ She looked up into Andraste’s serene face, and had an idea.

Moving silently to one side of the room, as far out of the Venatori’s line of sight as possible, she made eye contact with the prisoners and tried to convey her hasty plan in gestures. They murmured to each other and began to move.

The Venatori paid them no heed, still staring inward, rapt in the power they drew on as their victims looped themselves around the base of the statue.

Leliana crept back to Elaine’s side and then, hoping it would pull the Venatori’s attention to her, sang out a new song over the sound of the rift, a clarion call to her allies.

Outside, the fighters found a second wind and pushed the demon back.

Inside, the prisoners moved faster and their faces brightened as they quietly wound the chain around Andraste’s feet. Elaine coughed and opened her eyes. The Circle mages’ working began to speed up.

At the right moment, Leliana thought a silent prayer, jumped to her feet, and held a high note. The prisoners pulled hard, together. The statue toppled toward the Venatori.

Several hundred pounds of stone punctuated her song as it crashed down into the gears and wheels and blades of the machine. The Venatori’s eyes cleared in shock. The shield broke.

At the same moment, Calpernia stepped away from the wall and smeared a long section of the blood pattern on the floor with her boot. The four links to the rift snapped.

Leliana felt herself smiling, and kept on singing.

The lines of rift power crackled back toward the pride demon like four of its own lashes. The prisoners threw themselves on the lead Venatori as he scrambled to run. Vivienne, Merrill, and the other mages stopped the rest. Leliana heard another explosion and a whoop from Sera.

It was all done before the song ended.

“Praise be to Our Lady,” Elaine said, pushing herself to a sitting position. Leliana caught her breath and laughed out loud, and then so did Merrill, and it became infectious.

“What’s everyone laughing at, then?” Sera demanded, sticking her head in the door. “Did we win?”

 

* * *

 

In the Grand Cathedral, Cassandra had spent the rest of a long night into a long day not sleeping, stopping herself from breaking things, mustering tired templars to prepare to march, sending to Halamshiral and any of the Orlesian army that might be closer, and arranging for the sea crossing. The fastest ship docked in Val Royeaux was neither the Chantry’s nor a passenger vessel, but the captain did not presume to argue the point.

As she was pushing things into a saddlebag, there was a knock on her open door and then a characteristic throat-clearing. “I have something here you will want to see.”

“I have no time, Zevran.” She didn’t look up.

“No, Most Holy, I assure you. Read.” He approached, put it in her hand. A third Skyhold message. The seal had been cracked. “Yes, I have said it, I am too curious.”

_Cassandra. Disregard Charter’s distress call. Decisive victory. More when I see you. L. _

She had underlined it twice and not bothered with code or titles, as if to say, _really, I mean it_. Cassandra could hear the exact tone in her head. In the midst of a relief that felt transcendent she wanted to laugh.

Zevran was still talking. “If you find yourself about to faint, of course, I am at your—”

“Out.” She slammed the door on him.

As the reverberation died, she sat and buried her face in her hands, elation warring with every ache from her own battle the night before. She could have lost her and not known. Very well. Something had to give or break, and if that was her, then it was.

 

* * *

 

It had been a week since the attack. After the prisoners were freed and the Venatori in turn were chained, Calpernia had not thanked Leliana for the rescue. “He was never a god, and none of them will ever bring him back,” she said, staring with contempt at her former followers.

“I know,” Leliana said.

“I will return for what I was promised.” And she had walked into the eluvian without explaining how she would come back.

Few of the mages wanted to look too closely at the blood machine, but Dagna and Merrill, both unfazed, spent days puzzling over the gruesome thing, how it was made, and how it could be properly disassembled.

Along with a dozen Dalish and the parents of two other children, Mari Van Markham’s father was among the survivors. As soon as the healers had treated him, he wanted to set off for Nevarra to find his daughter. Leliana had sent him with her blessing, a letter to Vestalus Pentaghast, and the stolen Mortalitasi relics, after Dagna extracted them from the guts of the machine.

Her negotiations with the mages had adjourned due to the open rift and the mess the battle had made of the keep’s guest side, but more than one of them had confided that they would reopen on a favorable note.

And so, now that Ida had returned, the rift was closed, and Skyhold was full of hammering and chiseling and scaffolding again, she was walking the walls with nothing to do but feel absurdly tense and expectant about hearing from Cassandra.

She wouldn’t come herself. Leliana had sent to her as soon as she learned what Charter had done. But what if that was delayed, or …

The library was still reasonably quiet. She decided to go there.

After finding a seat in a window alcove, arranging the cushions on it exactly as she wanted, and examining most of the nearby shelves book by book for something edifying, she found herself taking down a broken-spined copy of something called _The Star-Crossed Chevaliers_. It still smelled like forge smoke. Cassandra wasn’t easy on them.

She was remembering Zevran’s idiot advice and wondering if it might actually help when a loud chortle from behind startled her. It was Sera.

“The Seeker, I mean, Divine Valeria, told me to read that too. It had some good stuff in between the silly bits, before everyone dies. At least I think it was that one.” Sera ducked down to peek at the cover and grinned widely. “Sorry, am I allowed to say that, Your Most Holiness? Can you still read things that aren’t boring?”

Leliana pushed it back onto the shelf and turned to face Sera with her hands behind her. “Divine Justinia was quite a fan of _Hard in Hightown_.”

“What, really?” Sera gave a snort of a laugh. “Brilliant.” There was a paper packet in her hand. She held it out seal up. “Oh, Charter gave me this upstairs for you. Said nothing else today, so don’t ask.”

The seal made her wait until Sera had gone to open it.

There was a personal note attached to a longer formal one offering aid to Skyhold. No mention of her own letter.

_Thank the Maker you are well,_ it said, simply, and then, _If we must still humor Celene for Satinalia, I will meet you there._

She sat back, disarraying her cushions. She didn’t know how to plan this. She’d done many things, but not ever this thing. It could all still go so wrong.


	13. Halamshiral

The Winter Palace at Halamshiral was not especially well constructed for winter, Leliana had thought more than once: either stuffy with the rooms closed up or drafty through the arches and porticoes. Today the ballroom was the first, with long heavy curtains over the windows and fires in all the fireplaces to ward off the coming Firstfall chill, though it was afternoon.

The empress was reclining on a couch among her ladies, receiving guests as they arrived for the Satinalia celebration and accepting the gifts they brought. The group tittered and critiqued them in whispers from behind their masks. Each noble tried to top the last; the mantle of phoenix scales from the west seemed to please Her Radiance, but the giant alabaster vase was a failure.

Celene had invited her to join them if she was not otherwise engaged, and so she had taken a seat with the ladies, to one side. They shied away from her at first, but after she offered a few mild sallies of her own without quoting from the Chant or rebuking them, they relaxed.

She paid attention out of habit—court gossip could become useful at any time—but a few hours of listening and thinking up tactful quips left her feeling overwarm and sleepy with it. There was a distinct pattern: each time a high-ranking guest was announced by the herald and presented a gift, Briala would lean over from her seat behind Celene and they would confer. Then Celene would either snub them and wave the gift to her seneschal, or favor them and open it herself.

Their official gift had been chosen months ago. A new altarpiece for the palace chapel, sent from the Cathedral, and she expected Celene would pretend to like it even if she did not.

As a marquise was walking in with something covered in silk and tassels carried by four men, a pageboy ran past her up to Briala. Leliana covered a yawn and sat up straighter. Briala whispered to Celene again and then pointed to her.

The boy came running and dropped to his knee in front of her. “Her Holiness Divine Valeria has arrived, Most Holy,” he said, and her mind snapped clear.

She excused herself and walked out alone through the entry hall, faster than strictly necessary.

Outside, it was brisk and sunny and the wind caught at her hair and robes. Servants were setting up tents and decorations all around the palace.

She didn’t see Cassandra at first, and then she rounded a corner and found her in the midst of another little party of templars and pack animals, handing over her horse’s reins to a man asking to take it.

Cassandra turned and saw her and smiled with relief and delight.

It was, maybe, the sort of look she’d been looking for since Antiva, or who knew how long. And it made her want things that couldn’t happen in broad daylight in front of the imperial court.

Instead, she smiled back at her and took both her hands. “You’re here.”

“Yes,” and Cassandra surprised her again by pulling her into an awkward hug, hard and fast.

She hadn’t done that since they were all overcome when she and the Inquisitor got back from saving the world. Leliana recomposed her Divine face as they walked back in side by side.

Celene stood up when they came into the ballroom, and the herald cut off what he’d been reciting and began again to announce her: “Her Perfection Divine Valeria, First of her Name …” The nobles in attendance sank to the floor while he intoned the list of titles.

“We are twice honored to welcome you as well, Your Perfection,” the empress said, inclining her head. “Please, join us, if you care to.” Two masked ladies cleared the seat next to the one Leliana had taken.

Cassandra looked at it and squared herself as if facing a nest of deepstalkers. “Unless you are tired from the ride,” Leliana said, offering her an escape.

“No, not now,” she said, and then to Celene, “Of course. Maker shine upon you.”

As they walked to the seats, the empress clapped her hands twice. “Before we forget, we have a small Satinalia present for Your Holinesses that we hope you may appreciate.”

Servingmen carried out two chests, set them at their feet, and opened them, to reveal two sets of armor, in their preferred weights, all gilded and inlaid with sunrays of the Chantry. Whispers ran around the room, followed by a scattering of applause from some of the nobles.

Celene said, “Orlais has an interest in seeing you well protected the next time you find yourselves saving her people.” She nodded to the chests. “I am told they are made to your measure,” she added.

Cassandra’s eyes lit up as she knelt to examine hers and then Leliana’s. “It is beautiful,” she said. “I—we—thank you. The Chantry must defend the defenseless.”

Leliana smiled at her expression as the nobles clapped harder. “Oh, indeed,” she agreed. “Most thoughtful and timely, Your Radiance.”

They were exquisite examples of the smith’s art, although she couldn’t imagine doing anything stealthy in neck-to-toe gold. But it would suit Cassandra, undeniably. She pictured that and swallowed as she sat down.

From her couch, the empress clasped her hands in the attitude of flattered acceptance, then waved to the herald to resume announcing guests.

They sat there through another long set of arrivals. The room was still too warm, although now she was overly conscious of it instead of sleepy. As the courtiers talked, Cassandra’s attention drifted back down to the chest and she ran her fingers over the plate and chainmail and fastenings, still looking pleased.

Finally, the empress opened her last gift of the afternoon, a jeweled and enameled chocolate pot from a comtesse in hideous shoes, and stood. The seneschal announced that she would take her leave to change and prepare for the opening of the revel. The ladies migrated after her toward the doors, and Leliana got to her feet as well, ready to part with them.

 

* * *

 

After the empress retired to the royal wing and the courtiers dispersed to niches and corners in a wave of masks and lace and whispering, Cassandra felt like a stifling blanket had been pulled off her face.

Servants began to clear away the gifts. Two men picked up the armor chests, and a steward showed her and Leliana to a pair of rooms at the distant end of the guest wing. The templars who came with her had already taken posts outside the heavy doors.

Leliana followed her into hers without asking, claimed an armchair, and tucked her feet up, closing her eyes, with a sigh of frustration. It felt better than she’d thought to have her there again.

She leaned against the mantel and watched her for a little while, then said, “Just tell me no one here is plotting to kill us tonight.”

Leliana chuckled. “Well, I can say no one is in this room.” She stretched and opened her eyes again. “But I understand I missed all the excitement in Val Royeaux.”

Cassandra walked to the balcony doors on the far side. “It is far from over. The trials alone ...”

She unlatched them and pulled them open. Fresh clear air cut into the close atmosphere of the palace. “And I suspect you had enough excitement. I hear you sang the blood mages to death?”

Leliana’s laugh this time was brighter. She unfolded herself and came to the balcony. “Who is saying that?”

“Zevran told me the rumor. Maker knows where he heard it.”

“I flatter myself that the singing helped. It’s been a long time.” She put a hand on the railing. “But everyone at Skyhold missed you.”

Cassandra looked out over the garden below. Servants were hanging colored lanterns in bare trees and evergreen hedges. “It was too quiet in the Cathedral, when it was not maddening. I read your notes.”

“I wondered if you would find them—”

A scuffling sound in the room behind them interrupted her, and they both turned quickly.

A small phalanx of human and elven women in the empress’s livery had appeared by the door. The one in the lead rose. “Most Holy, we are sent by Her Imperial Majesty personally to attend you. Do you care for refreshment? May we aid you in dressing?”

Cassandra was irritated and about to say no, but Leliana put her court manner back on seamlessly, greeted them, and asked for tea. She followed this by finding out all six of their names, and drew them around her into a conversation about who would have the most elaborate costumes for the revel this year.

If they were here to eavesdrop, it was a more subtle way to manage them, Cassandra supposed. And kinder. She drank the tea when it arrived, and complimented it, and listened. Apparently Celene’s Satinalia costume had taken her tailors weeks, and an inordinate number of plucked geese.

“And have Your Holinesses chosen what to wear for this evening?” the senior maid ventured.

She was still not used to having to think about this. She looked at the new armor again and was tempted. “Perhaps I should try on the empress’s gift.”

“Oh, yes, why not oblige her?” Leliana said, still in that airy offhand tone the court affected. She set down her cup and went to the door. “I think I will stick to something lighter, and trust in a peaceful night. Will you three come with me?” She went out with half of them following.

The remaining maids descended on Cassandra. _When in the imperial court_ , she thought, and let them bathe her and dress her and braid her hair and line her eyes with tiny tickling brushes, until she felt like a highly rarefied version of her usual self.

As they were piecing the armor on, they insisted on making her overblown compliments and praising Celene’s taste and holding up a mirror. The gilding was Orlesian excess, but, embarrassingly, she liked it. It was excellent steel and silverite underneath, and fit so well she wondered if they had spies in the Inquisition’s armory.

The maids made finishing touches and tied off laces while her thoughts wandered to what Leliana might think, and how to get through the rest of the evening and choose a good time for what she had to say, if she was really going to say it.

When they met in the hall again, she had even less of an idea of what to say. Leliana was looking out an uncovered window, in white and red and bareheaded with the late afternoon sun pouring in over her, in that way she couldn’t take her eyes from lately. _As if the Maker can’t eithe_ r, she thought, and then scoffed at herself, and then wondered if golden scale would have the same effect.

Leliana glanced up. After a second she said, “We may have to give a blessing, you know, so be ready.” When Cassandra nodded, she picked up her white skirts and walked ahead.

In the ballroom, now set for feasting, the guests were waiting, arrayed by rank, colorfully and variously costumed. The Divines were shown to places of honor on the balcony that overlooked the sunken dance floor. When the empress finally made her entrance, the court gasped and exclaimed over her costume: a swan, in a silver mask and crown, and a trailing cape of snowy feathers.

Leliana was suppressing a smile and Cassandra tried not to chuckle, thinking of the geese.

Celene opened the feast with the traditional crowning of her jester as emperor of the revels, seating him on a pasteboard-gilt throne and curtsying to him. He ran through the room, tapping people on the head with his padded scepter and giving them presents from a big sack, followed by uproarious laughter.

When he reached them, he produced a wreath of small crystal grace flowers, fragile and surprisingly intact, maybe from the winter greenhouses. “My mother always called them the Maker’s best gifts,” he said. Leliana laughed and let him put it on her head. When he took out a second one, she made Cassandra wear it.

Then he knelt down and pretended to pray, clowning, and begged them to say a few words. The audience clapped.

Leliana stood up and called out in her clear bard voice, “On this day the Maker’s children celebrate our purpose: dream and idea, hope and fear, endless possibilities!”

“And balance in all things,” Cassandra finished after her. “Maker and Andraste bless us this day.”

As she sat back and the applause subsided, she felt the flower circlet slide down. “Oh, not like that.” Leliana reached to straighten it, quick fingers in her hair. “There.” It lasted a fraction of a second, but the sensation persisted.

Cassandra spent all the courses of the dinner picking at rich food disguised as other things, in the spirit of the holiday, and trying to contain a host of conflicting desires: to have it out with her, resolve the questions, not say the wrong thing, not be a spectacle, not drive her away.

It seemed as though things were dying down, but then the jester got up from his throne and danced outside, musicians followed him, and the guests began to flow after him to the tents and fires in the gardens and courtyards.

They had a pavilion for the Chantry, and the abbess and sisters from the area were visiting, but Cassandra didn’t know if she could face several more hours of this.

“I am tired from the ride, after all,” she said to Leliana. “I think I will excuse myself. Unless you need me out there scowling at nobles over your shoulder.”

“I am not saying I don’t, but if you’re tired.”

She went out with Celene into the whirl of celebrants, and Cassandra retreated to the relative calm of the guest wing, empty except for the guards on the doors, already doubly annoyed at both the situation and herself for fleeing it.

When a prayer and lighting a candle before the room’s icon of Andraste failed to quiet her, she went out to the balcony for fresh air. On the horizon, the sun was setting. Below was an equal riot of color: bright pavilions and tents with the arms of different noble houses, lanterns and banners and fires, people moving from one to another eating, drinking, dancing, exchanging gifts.

From high up it was calming to watch. She could see the Chantry pavilion to the far side of the courtyard, a little island amid the hedges, avoided by the more raucous revelers.

As the night came on, the breezes became colder, but below her costumed Orlesians shed their outer layers and the calls and cries she heard became wilder. Eventually, she saw the abbess take her leave and the sisters file out in a row of habits. A masked imp who could have been a servant or a duke ran past them after a giggling chevalier into the shadow of the walls.

They wouldn’t be looking for either Divine’s attention any more tonight. And it was the night for reversals and transformations.

Cassandra asked Andraste for courage even if She might also be looking the other way tonight, and finally went down to find Leliana.

 

* * *

 

The pavilion had emptied as night came on and piety became less attractive to the guests. The sisters had come to share baskets of cakes and sweets from their kitchens, and to talk to her about their rebuilding efforts, but eventually Leliana had let them go home, staying herself to watch the revels in peace.

There were a few still left: upside-down sugar crust over rich fruit in celestial shapes. She nibbled on one and looked out through the single open curtain, over the courtyards. Lights moved back and forth, figures crossing from tent to tent and door to door, vanishing into the mazes of bare arbors, crowding around the grand steps, laughter and music harmonizing and clashing.

The court lost the few last inhibitions it normally clung to during Satinalia, as she knew intimately from past years and operations. The ripples of scandal and consequence from these three nights would keep them and their bards busy all winter.

It was odd to be here as the balance for the debauchery, not attempting to direct it.

Someone had left a pressed-paper mask on one of the benches. She took it up and picked at a knot in one of the ribbon ties as she considered going to bed. The little dramas she was watching would play out whether she was there or no, and she had other eyes in the palace. Maybe Cassandra had not gone to sleep yet.

Then, as if she had called her from the air, Leliana heard the crunch of footsteps outside and her voice telling the guard on duty to go. He went.

There was a draft from behind, sending the flames in the brazier lower. When she turned, Cassandra was ducking under the curtain, the fire reflecting on the gold at her shoulder and neck and arm. Celene’s gift did look well on her, and the flowers, Maker take it.

“There you are,” Leliana said, denying the prickle down her back. “Have you seen—”

“Wait.” Something in her tone made the atmosphere seem to thicken as she came further into the light. “I am sure this must be the wrong time to say this. If there is a right one. But I will go out of my mind otherwise.”

Leliana’s hands closed convulsively on the paper edge of the mask and she felt it crush.

“I think something has changed between you and me.”

The mask dropped from her fingers.

“Or else I am wrong, and it is just me.”

Someone could have slipped something in with the sisters’ cakes. She’d seen it before at the palace, at festival times. Even done it.

“When I heard that Skyhold had been overrun—” Cassandra made a frustrated sound and looked down, turned. “I am not doing this right.” Her eyes came up to Leliana’s again. “But you wrote that you wanted to tell me something.”

She was only a step away now. All the others had been taken, all of a sudden. If this wasn’t a poppy dream.

“Yes,” she heard herself say, to both things.

And she gave in and closed the distance, in elation and terror, set both hands deliberately on Cassandra’s shoulders, and kissed her.

Lightly, in an instant that seemed paradoxically forever and not long enough, and her hands came up to frame her face, still ready to withdraw and make amends, and Cassandra did the same, fingers catching in her hair at the base of her skull, and then harder.

It was familiar and not, the other side of the line that had always been there and suddenly was not.

The moons outside shone down on misrule, sent high and low and left and right spinning out of control, and she wasn’t above it after all, she thought, barely standing there with Cassandra kissing her back like she’d never hoped to expect.

She traced a hand down her side to pull her closer, followed the scar down her cheek, felt the heartbeat hard in her throat. Cassandra gasped into her palm and her eyes fluttered closed. The armor was beautiful frustrating plates and edges digging into her. With a sliver of her concentration, she felt for buckles and slipped them one-handed until the pieces between them fell and they were tense and yielding against each other, their breath fast and together.

Maker, if anyone walked in now she’d have them killed.

 

* * *

 

Leliana kissed her like a steely-soft tempest she’d awakened, and Cassandra clutched at her in a kind of breathless disbelieving wonder. Her new armor shed itself. The leg of a divan hit the back of her knee and she stumbled back into it with Leliana beside her and over her.

They should not be doing this, least of all here and now, it was a stupid risk and maybe a sin, and she didn’t care.

The weight and reality of her, the heat of her mouth and quick strength of her hands, were a revelation and a necessity, like air to a flame. Cassandra didn’t want her to take herself away.

Her hands followed each other up Leliana’s back, feeling the arc of her spine, the abrupt hot softness where the brocade of her surcoat met the thinner silk of the underdress, the moving shoulder blades.

Leliana pressed tight into her, kissed her ear and her cheek and her jaw. Crushed white flower bells slipped loose in her hair and she raked them away. She let her head drop back on the cushioned arm of the divan. Leliana’s lips followed her fingers to the buttons of her collar and down. Her skirts snared Cassandra’s legs as she moved.

She couldn’t say how long they were tumbled together kissing there in the least dignified way, though it couldn’t really have been more than minutes, before Leliana took a breath and said, “It was that.” She pushed up on her arms. “For much too long. _Maker_ , Cassandra.”

Cassandra choked on a laugh. “We can’t stay here,” she managed to say, her heart still like a trip-hammer in her chest.

“No.” Leliana shook her head, laughing too, the ends of her hair tickling her face. “Let me—” She reached down to the floor and fished for Cassandra’s chain shirt, then squirmed to help replace everything else she’d unbuckled. It wasn’t as easy, leaving it hanging together but askew in ways she could feel.

Finally Leliana extracted herself and stood up, though Cassandra was reluctant to let her hands go. She smoothed swiftly at the wrinkles in her robes.

“Go back and I’ll find you,” Leliana said, and she knew she would do it.

A wind gust from outside caught the draperies and they parted and fell back, the brazier flaring. The lights and merriment across the courtyard continued, a song starting up from one pavilion just as if nothing had happened.

Cassandra stepped out into the dark garden and crossed back through the hedges and toward the palace, making herself walk with purpose, not quite hurrying, on the paths with fewer lanterns. No one approached her.

Servants were scarce in the halls, no doubt all busy carrying on in abandon and disguise with the guests, but the templars stationed by her room and Leliana’s were still on guard. She told them good night, closed the door behind her, and leaned back against it with a shuddering exhalation.

The room was dark now, the only illumination the red coals and occasional flames of the banked fire, and the faint lights coming up from outside. She drew the curtain over the balcony door, paced, waited, decided to take the armor off on her own though it required some awkward twists and turns, replaced it in the chest a piece at a time.

Then she thought it was too dark, and maybe she should light the candelabra on the table.

She stood beside the candles and unbuttoned the gambeson the rest of the way to get out of it, thinking of Leliana’s fingers on it, nervous and elated.

As she peeled it off, a movement by the wall startled her to attention. An arras rippled, then lifted to reveal a silently opening panel and Leliana stepping through, in only her white dress and bare feet.

“How did you—”

“All chateaux in Orlais have secret passages, for intrigues and assignations, surely you know?” She dropped the arras, looked at the door to the hall, and raised an eyebrow. Cassandra turned the key and set it on the table.

She went to her then, unable to restrain herself from touching her, and Leliana’s arms came around her waist and up her back. She leaned on the wall and kissed her again, and it was the same shock of newness and rightness.

“And it was locked on my side, too,” Leliana murmured. “Fairly secure.” She tilted her head back into Cassandra’s hands.

Her body was hard and soft lines and angles through the dress, its warmth intense now with so little between them. Cassandra kissed her forehead, and her closed eyes with their red-gold lashes, and her cheeks, and felt her smile, easing into learning this new dimension of her.

Before she had quite memorized it, Leliana pushed up to catch her lips with her own again, and she felt the quick sweetness of her tongue, and her breath came faster, kindling.

Leliana played with the laces at the front of her shirt, then spread it open with both hands over her collarbones. She pulled back to glance at her for a moment, her eyes intent now. A tingle ran down Cassandra’s spine and back up, strengthening.

It turned to a shudder as Leliana kissed a slow controlled line down to the base of her throat. She closed her eyes and ran her fingers up into Leliana’s hair as she moved lower, to the point between her breasts where her pulse raced beneath the skin.

When Leliana’s hands slid in to touch them and her mouth followed, Cassandra’s fists involuntarily tightened. Leliana made a noise.

She let go. “I did not hurt you—”

“No,” Leliana said, sounding anything but hurt. She pushed Cassandra’s shirt over her head and down her arms, tugging on it to pull her back before letting it drop.

Then she resumed, palms curving warm around her sides and her lips hot. Cassandra sank her fingers into the tapestry behind her, sucked in a breath, reached back for her, and couldn’t help pulling her hair again.

Leliana half-gasped, half-laughed, and responded in kind, less controlled now. She pushed her hard against the wall, kissed her mouth again and skillfully, deft hands on her breasts.

Cassandra’s heart filled her head and all the rest of her, blood rushing in her ears, still disbelieving but ecstatic. She was only sure that she wanted more of this, as much as Leliana cared to give her, anywhere she would.

After some long and breathless minutes Leliana’s hand went for the fastening of her breeches, and Cassandra freed her own hand, caught hers, and pushed it down.

When she felt her, she said, “ _Oh_ ,” with an edge of a moan, burying her face in Cassandra’s shoulder and tightening her other arm around her waist.

Then Leliana muttered something that might have ended with “kill them myself,” and before she could decipher it, her fingers pressed and curled and slid, fast and insistent, and Cassandra lost the thread of her thought between them, caught up and lifted and driven into a hard bright shivering crisis between Leliana’s arms and the wall.

She shook and said her name into her hair, and Leliana said hoarsely, “Oh, Cassandra,” and held her up, and they clung together until they had their breath again.

Then Leliana took her hands and drew them behind her, around her again, as she stepped back toward the bed.

The dress fastened behind with a long row of tiny buttons. When she undid the first one, Leliana inhaled sharply and moved against her. The opening V of bare skin over her back was velvety. The buttons slipped in her fingertips. She tried to be careful.

By the time she found the last one, at the base of her spine, Leliana was almost vibrating, like a string tightened to breaking, fingers digging into her arms.

 

* * *

 

Her feelings about the alterations and astonishments of this night were too much to look at straight on. Leliana dodged them in favor of immediate sensations: the cool air prickling where the dress parted button by button, the slip of silk, the hitches in her own breath and tension in all her muscles, Cassandra’s bare shoulders moving under her fingers.

The candles cast dramatic shadows across her back and lit the bend of her neck up into her hair. Leliana caressed it and kissed the side of her face as Cassandra freed the last button.

Then she sat on the bed and let the dress fall forward, shrugging her arms out of the sleeves. A chill ran up her back and down over her breasts.

Cassandra held her hands and looked at her with darkened eyes. “Tell me how to do this,” she said.

The words settled on her like embers and she couldn’t stand it. “For the Maker’s sake, just touch me.”

Cassandra put a hand on her knee. She felt its precise outline in warmth through the silk. Then the other, and she slid both hands up, over the crumpled dress, to the bare skin above. Leliana leaned back on her arms, watching, feeling each movement acutely.

Cassandra’s fingers spanned her hips, then brushed over the old scar knotted in her belly, dull and shivery deep underneath. She glanced up, seeking assurance or confirmation. Leliana covered her hand with her own, fingers interlacing, and moved it further up, across her breasts. As she felt it, she took in a shaking breath.

Half of her was half mad with waiting, and the other wished to slow time further, draw a circle and hold it back like mages could.

Cassandra’s breath was shaky herself. She touched, and then, as if letting herself try, leaned quickly to kiss them, darting her tongue.

Leliana covered her mouth to keep in the sound she made. Cassandra caught her around her waist and followed her down to the bed when she fell back, hand to hand, toe to toe.

Her heart beat flutter-quick and strong all through her body. She thought she must be like a rainstorm by now, and not a gentle one. She slipped her legs out of the dress, wrapped them around Cassandra, hugged her close with both arms.

To hold her like that was more ordinary and more wonderful than all the times she had considered it and forced it down. She was still herself this close up: friend, partner, accepter of her jokes, hopelessly forthright, beloved.

Her kiss became less careful, and it sent a harder pulse between Leliana’s legs. She wanted to take her hand and clamp it there, wondered if that was too fast.

Then, answering her thought once more, Cassandra did it for her.

“You will say something if I am doing it wrong,” she said, matter-of-factly, or as much as was possible in that state.

Leliana thought she gasped and laughed and said yes at the same time, and she didn’t know how it came out.

On her next attempt, she managed, “Yes—do— _that_.”

She felt Cassandra laugh a little but she did not fail to, curling around her as if to encompass and contain her when she broke, fingers reliably tireless.

She pulled her in tightly with all her strength, closed her eyes, moved against them.

Cassandra kissed her throat. Leliana drew her head back, caught her lips, heard herself ask again, raggedly and then in shaking rising pants, until her voice fragmented into a long held breath and her fingers twisted in her hair and skidded across her back.

And it was all light and ascending and flying, like she sometimes felt singing, but not alone.

When she came back to herself from a long way, her bones felt on fire with a dull glow. She couldn’t so much as open her eyes or lift an arm or leg from where it rested.

And Cassandra hadn’t left her. She felt her brush her hair back and cup her face. She turned a little way into her hand and kissed it, tasted herself and the roughness across the inside of her fingers. Strength, lack of artifice, beauty like a disregarded side effect: it was hardly a creative leap, but she couldn’t name a better synecdoche for all of her.

She wasn’t done. She hadn’t done enough, but she just couldn’t move right now.

She felt Cassandra pick up her hand and kiss it in return, following the line down her wrist where a bowstring had snapped at Haven, then stretch against her and settle.

Leliana gave in to the warm blissful sleep that enveloped her, without restless dreams, for the first time in a long time.

When she resurfaced to consciousness, she was under the bedcovers and Cassandra was sleeping beside her.

She was bemused again at the reality of her head against her shoulder, her arm thrown over her, still there.

Not wanting to disturb her, she lay there a while and looked instead of touching: dark strands of hair that feathered over her ear, smudges around her eyes, braid loosening from the pins, long rangy curve of her back into the sheets.

Marjolaine—whom she did not want to remember now, blast her—had liked to disappear after taking her pleasure, and at other times that suited her caprices. The thought of doing that hurt, almost physically.

But they were still Divine, and someone or several would be coming to wake them before the sunrise, and this was not a revelation for the Halamshiral court to have their way with.

She tore herself slowly away, gathered her dress up, turned the key in the door, then went back to fold the blanket over Cassandra before slipping through the hidden panel.

 

* * *

 

Cassandra opened her eyes to dimness and momentary disorientation. There was a touch on her shoulder, and a voice quietly saying, “Good morning, Most Holy? May I offer you tea? The sun is not yet up.”

The sheets were tangled around her under the coverlet and the space beside her empty. The speaker was one of Celene’s maids, she realized. Here to wake her for the sunrise sacrament. Of course.

She rolled over and sipped the tea and thought of the night before. She could not quite believe what she’d said and then done. It felt like a particularly intense dream she’d awakened from alone.

In the imperial private chapel, few were present at this hour, but Celene was in the front pew and Leliana next to her. When she walked in, Leliana shot her a look and an oblique quick smile, as if she read her mind, and it all flooded back and she tried to breathe evenly.

As the empress’s chanter sang for them and the dappled stained light began to shine through the windows, she didn’t know if she should say a prayer of contrition or thanksgiving.

They also broke their fast with Celene, who, it seemed, was well rested and ready to discuss matters of state—informally, to be sure, over pastries and fruit and more tea. Briala sat across the room, writing and politely pretending not to hear.

After the one look, Leliana had carried herself and spoken like nothing at all was different, and Cassandra tried to do the same, though it was hard.

She gave her thoughts when the empress pressed them about the Exalted March investigations and the likelihood of diplomatic repercussions with Nevarra and the Free Marches. Then Celene brought up the Circles in Orlais; Leliana said the mages would be negotiating further and told the story of the Skyhold incident. When she described the Venatori using the eluvians, Celene put a hand to her mouth and Briala’s pen squeaked on the desk.

Before the breakfast was over, the imperial hunt master came in to report that preparations were all made for the court’s grand Satinalia hunt that day.

“Good,” said Celene. “Perhaps we can discuss these matters further as we ride? You will ride out, Your Holinesses, no?”

They glanced at each other and Leliana started to nod.

“There have also been sightings of a drake,” the hunt master said, “that may be preying on farm animals.”

“Ah, most exciting.” Celene laughed. “Then you will have to come to protect us.”

Leliana chuckled. Cassandra summoned her best diplomatic face as if she hadn’t heard a hundred variations on that joke from Orlesians over the years.

The hunt was a swarm of banners and pageantry and people, some riding and some following in small carriages, and the requisite guards ahead of and behind them and Celene. Even so, it was good to be out of the palace.

They rode and walked all afternoon through frosty bare forest with leaves crunching under them, limbs crisscrossing the cloudless blue sky. Like the morning, it seemed both too short and too long.

Celene wanted to talk about the future role and allegiance of the Inquisition forces. While they did, Cassandra kept catching Leliana’s eyes and feeling giddy and unlike herself, and then answering the empress and hoping she sounded measured and sensible.

She wished they were alone again, because none of the questions seemed fully answered, but she was unsure. _And then what? There’s no precedent for this, either. Are our vows broken? Does it matter? Do I care?_

They crested a hill, broke out of the trees, and found the downslope wide and open before them, brown grass and dry ground stretching down to another line of trees in the distance.

“I think she wants to run,” Leliana said to Cassandra then, reaching over to pat her horse’s mane with a gloved hand. “Shall we give them their heads all the way down? Your Radiance?”

Beside them, Briala and the captain of the guard looked pained. Celene paused and then shook her head, but waved them on.

Leliana bent over the dapple-grey neck of her own horse and murmured something, and they were off in a canter down the hill, red trappings flying. Cassandra hesitated and then went after her, leaning forward and holding tight with her knees as the horse’s stride stretched out, cold wind and sun in her face as the ground sped by beneath them. Their shadows skimmed over the dry dead grass, making it flicker, light and dark and dark and light.

A narrow ditch cut across the hillside ahead of them. Leliana’s grey took it in a jump, landing easily, and she followed, coming up neck and neck with her, dirt clods scattering, heard her laugh and urge the horse on as they pounded down the rest of the slope, until it leveled out and they were circling to a stop among the trees on the far side. The horses’ sides were heaving.

Leliana looked back up the hill at the massive, colorful hunting party. “We are not going to catch a thing, and I doubt there was ever a dragon,” she said, chuckling.

“Thank the Maker. I am not really in the mood to fight anything.”

Leliana feigned shock as she slid off her horse’s back, and gave her a hand as she did the same. The world might have shifted, but behind all her faces she was constant, and today Cassandra thought she was happy.

“I wonder how quickly they will catch up,” Leliana said, and then gave her an unveiled grin and squeezed her hand, and they walked the horses that way in sunny quiet for a little while without saying anything, before they did catch up.

The hunt continued until evening, with the huntsmen carefully maneuvering the procession around to arrive back at the palace before dark. Some of those in front swore they had seen the drake, and others contradicted them. A few of the enthusiastic nobles and chevaliers had bagged other game, which they boasted and compared notes about around the bonfire at the twilight hunt-dinner.

After the day, the dinner seemed to last twice as long, with more courtiers drawing them into separate conversation about frustratingly tedious things. When the guests began to migrate out for the second night’s dancing and carousing, she took the chance to go as well.

She said good night to the guards on her door again and turned the key, then hung up her cloak, took off her boots and outer clothes, and followed the rest of the solitary routine she had fallen back into over the past weeks in the Cathedral apartments.

Before and after and shamefully during her devotions, she couldn’t keep from glancing back at the arras hiding the secret door Leliana had come through, feeling like one of those palace ladies in her stories, wondering if she would again.

Finally, she went to it herself, tried the panel—it was still unlocked—and then took the few steps through the dark little passage in the wall.

The other side was warmly lit, and Leliana was writing at an escritoire a few feet away, head bent away from her.

She wanted to kiss the back of her neck and the pale shoulder where the collar of her simple night robe fell away. She wanted to face her and demand to know what this meant, what they had done.

She knocked lightly on the inside of the panel, instead. Leliana turned her head.

“I had something to ask you.”

“Yes?” There was a touch of worry in her eyes. Her cuff slipped down, revealing the fine silvery line of the scar around her wrist. Cassandra remembered helping her bind it at Haven in the snow, and tracing it last night as she fell asleep undone in her arms.

Everything she wanted to ask choked her and refused to come out, and more than that she wanted to hold her like that again. “… No.” She crossed to the escritoire and put her hand on it.

Leliana’s face relaxed and lit up, subtly. “No?” She stood, and smiled the way she had in the forest, and leaned into her.

Their foreheads touched. She closed her eyes and breathed in shallowly until Leliana’s lips found hers.

“I left it unlocked for you,” Leliana said after a moment, then pulled her abruptly closer, deepened the kiss, and she felt like a coal brightening to red waking.

She had put on some complex golden scent that was inextricable from her skin, filling Cassandra’s head. Her robe parted in the front, baring shifting lines of her body. Her hands were cool on either side of Cassandra’s face, and then her arms around her neck, welcome and volatile and unbalancing.

The questions were still there and they would have to find answers eventually, but she had come of her own accord; she had an equal part in this; she couldn’t pretend otherwise.

Leliana took a step back, drawing her after. Another, and the side of the bed was behind her, high carved headboard rearing up in gilt and scrollwork.

“No one saw or will see. I made very sure of it.” And she brought Cassandra down with her, over her, irresistibly.

In the silence she heard the fire crackle and spit, felt the quick expansion of Leliana’s breath following hers, the little sting of her nails through her shirt.

She thought of last night and desire caught in her throat. She wanted to touch her again, all at once. She pushed the robe aside and raked fingers slowly up the hard fine cage of her ribs, the taut softness of her breasts, the muscles in her arms, over her head to the deceptively delicate wrists and hands that blessed and killed.

Leliana gasped and held them there a moment, then pulled her head down and kissed her breathless and raced her to unlace everything she could reach.

They both tugged at her clothes in an ungraceful rush, trying to be quiet, with whispered competing encouragements and directions until she could have lost her patience and ripped something. But then Leliana was above her, curling arms around her head, helping her take her shirt off the rest of the way and kick off her breeches, pressing a naked thigh into her with her weight behind it.

She bit back a groan. Leliana’s lower back tightened and rocked as she moved and braced her other knee on the bed.

Cassandra let her lead as she would in a conversation of blades, leaving herself open as an invitation to the hard teasing friction of it, felt her heart begin to hammer again steadily in her chest.

She reached up and caught fingers with hers, then, in a reversal direct, hooked her legs around Leliana’s and lifted her off the floor, tumbling her sideways into the middle of the bed, landing with one hand trapping hers.

Leliana laughed, a low delighted sound she felt more than heard, and tested her hold with a turn of her wrist, then kissed her as a distraction and slipped arms out of her sleeves as she slipped out of it, leaving the robe in a puddle of warm lace and moving deliciously under her until her fingers slid inside her, a cool sweet invasion.

She gripped the sheets, then buried her face in her arms, over Leliana’s head. Leliana wrapped her other arm around her waist and in another writhing twist was over her, finding her mouth again as her fingers worked, rubbing hard with her whole hand until both were panting and dissolving.

When Leliana moved down her body, the air was cold where she wasn’t. Cassandra reached for her as she kissed her thigh.

She looked up, face flushed with the fire-glow behind her. “May I—”

“Yes,” Cassandra blurted out before she could finish. She smiled again, and ducked down.

Leliana’s cheek was soft heat on her leg. Her mouth was clever and fierce and unrelenting and didn’t need instruction.

She had no words for this. All she could do was arch up, and fall, and die, in ecstatic and effortful silence, around Leliana’s tongue and her fingers, as she murmured _again?_ , and it went from a question to a command to a kind of wonder at testing her endurance that she strove to answer each time, until Leliana collapsed over her and dropped her bonelessly to the bed. “Maker’s _breath_ , Cassandra.”

“Now let me,” she said, when she could say it.

Gathering herself together, she turned and held Leliana’s hips down, essaying what she’d thought of and not tried.

Leliana looked down at her, breathed a small wavering oh, and squeezed her eyes shut.

She made little high noises and tasted like the smell of her skin, only sharper and electric. She dug her toes into the bed and into Cassandra’s back and strained against her hold.

Her hair was in her eyes, and her cheeks and neck and the tips of her ears were rosy and hot. Her legs tightened around Cassandra’s shoulders. She was like saturated wet silk to touch.

Leliana turned her face into the coverlet and said _Cassandra_ and _harder_ and _there_ and _yes_ in a cascade of muffled pleading notes, until she thought she might die again of it.

Then her fingertips in Cassandra’s hair, on her cheek, beckoning, and she said in a dreamy voice, “Come here.”

When they had exhausted each other, they lay there like intertwined halves of one thing. As the Chantry and their lives had made them, and the Grand Consensus had confirmed them.

She might have fallen, but she didn’t feel broken. She felt like they were stronger together.

_We haven’t married. There will be no childbearing on the Cathedral steps. The Maker still has all of me, all of her, He could want._

Maybe they could take this, in return. Maybe it was a gift and not a test. If Leliana truly wanted it, and this was not a passing madness.

She didn’t know how to ask. She just stayed there awake with her, in her bed, holding her, thinking.

Leliana eventually stirred and sighed.

“What are we …” Cassandra began.

“I don’t know,” and Leliana kissed her before she could finish, lingering. “And believe me, I want you to stay, but … go back, before they come to wake you.”

No part of her wanted to leave. She made the effort to marshal all of them out of the bed and back through the wall.

In her room in the darkness, she cleaned up, decided not to try to sleep, and lit another candle to Andraste to pray. The light descended softly, without a struggle, as if the Lady sat with her in shared sensibility, and remained listening with her until someone knocked and broke her reverie.

 

* * *

 

Leliana woke feeling chilled, as if her covers were too thin, and sorry to be alone. Lacy patterns of frost had grown over the edges of the windows, and the fire had gone out, not being tended.

She slid out of bed. A light snow was falling in the early dark outside. She pulled the robe back on that she would have slept in, then made sure the room was in order and the attendants would not find the door locked before retreating under the covers again.

Before long they came in, with candles and gasps of chagrin at the cold. One set to remaking the fire and another hurried for a warm drink for her.

She let them get her ready and drape her in the several layers of semiformal vestments, ignoring the faint pleasant aches in her hands and arms and back. After making another appearance in Celene’s chapel for the sunrise, they had an official trip scheduled to visit the abbey in the valley south of Halamshiral.

It was important, she reminded herself. The work was still there and would always be, no matter how overturned and upended the woman inside the Divine might feel; either of them.

The ride took most of the morning. Cassandra’s little group of templars were supplemented by an imperial cavalry squad, and they were never out of earshot, but the snow and the hush were beautiful.

Their red winter cloaks and the banners of their escort stood out like a splendid shout against the whiteness that gathered and filled in their tracks, and at least half the times she looked she caught Cassandra looking back, and there were worse ways to spend a morning.

She told herself not to overthink and not to worry.

The abbey was a cluster of low buildings of pale stone surrounded by quiet fields and woods, as far from the palace in spirit as the frosty road was from a hothouse.

Abbess Pascaline was standing at the gatehouse in a white wool habit to meet them, a sturdy gray-haired woman like a smooth nut. “Be very welcome, Most Holy,” she said, and bent over their hands. Two lay brothers came after her to guide the guard and the horses away.

“Thank you,” Cassandra was saying. “I am sorry we did not meet the other night.”

“After such goings-on in the capital as we hear of, may I say, we’re just happy to still have you.”

“Indeed,” Leliana said, carefully not looking at her.

“Both,” the abbess added, leading them through the gates. “We are faithful to the Maker’s choice through the Consensus. Not like some.”

“And it is good to hear it.” As they came out into an open space of gardens with neat paths and plantings covered for winter, Leliana asked after the sisters who had brought the sweets and commented that they were excellent. Pascaline drew herself up proudly and said they just might see them inside.

The sun atop the abbey chantry was visible on the other side of the gardens, past a series of overgrown stone arches that looked as old as the Imperial Highway.

They passed under the first arch. Leliana was praising the design of the garden when she spied a few very late roses still hanging on high overhead, a deep red verging on black against the stone and briars, stark and tenacious.

She leaned back to look up, feeling snowflakes melt on her face, and could not resist. “Perhaps we should love all of the Maker’s creations, but I will confess to finding these particularly lovely.” She touched the canes where they twined up the side of the arch.

“Yes, and hardy, but such thorns, Most Holy. The gardeners had to give up and leave them, as you see.”

“Oh, I like them just as they are,” she said, and this time did risk a glance at Cassandra behind the abbess’s back. Her expression was part glare, part blush, quite worth it, before she looked away.

The abbess gave a polite laugh of incomprehension.

“Your gardeners must be quite skilled, though,” Leliana went on, returning to safer ground.

If comparing her to roses had that effect, she wondered what climbing up and stealing them for her would do. Not that she would. Divine Victoria could not. She concentrated on what the abbess was saying and told herself to stop being inappropriate.

They crossed the garden and climbed the few steps up into the chantry. Andraste here was carved in stone, rather like Her lucky incarnation at Skyhold, and Her flame a simple oil reservoir; the walls had fading fresco paintings instead of stained glass.

Two chanters in the same white monastic robes sang a passage for them as they knelt to pay their respects. She looked up at the flame and let their voices carry her for that moment. Cassandra murmured a few words against her clasped hands before she stood, still not looking at her.

The library, schoolrooms, and scriptorium adjoined the chantry, spare and ordered rows of shelves and tables by whitewashed walls under the old vaulted stone of the ceilings, and Pascaline led them through with whispered enthusiasm for their book collection and the growing number of children returning to learn their letters.

However, the rooms were empty of people, save for one sister painting tiny details into an illuminated page border by a window. She didn’t look up until they were almost at her shoulder, then jumped, pulling the brush away from the page reflexively.

“Well saved,” Leliana said as she curtsied, flustered. “It is beautiful work.”

The place seemed more Fereldan than Orlesian with its plainspoken mother abbess and its simplicity; there might have been some influence from the other side of the mountains. Or perhaps it was more like the monasteries of the Seekers and templars. Cassandra walked on the other side of Pascaline and made occasional approving comments; Leliana wondered how much she missed this uncomplicated serenity.

The kitchens were bustling in comparison, with eight bakers kneading and shaping dough from a massive barrel and two others tending the ovens. Rows of finished loaves and holiday cakes cooled on tables and racks, and covered baskets held more. As she led them toward the door that opened on another courtyard, the abbess explained, “People out here lost crops and livelihoods every time the armies passed through. We feed those we can, as I told you, Most Holy.”

On the opposite side of the building and outside the walls, there were signs that things had not been so calm for the abbey either: partly filled trenches across the fields, gaps in fences repaired with new wood, shells of barns partly collapsed or missing roofs. Abbess Pascaline lifted her hem to tramp through the muddy snow and point out where they hoped to replace blighted earth and replant. Leliana knew little of farming, but it seemed like a heroic effort for the number of sisters and brothers she’d seen.

”Tell us what help you need,” Cassandra said to the abbess, echoing her thought. “Supplies? People? Defenses?”

She chuckled. “I could draw you up a list, Most Holy, if you mean it.”

“Do that.”

The last thing, after they had seen all the abbess wished to show and taken the list of wants she scribbled in her study, was a short address to the assembled folk outside. A small crowd certainly; less than fifty in the monastic habits, and maybe a dozen in everyday clothes, refugees sheltering with them.

Leliana had already prepared the speech back at Skyhold, for which she was thankful now. They gave it in alternating paragraphs. Cassandra held her side of the paper and brushed her hand while still managing not to meet her eyes.

When she heard the cheers in response, she felt abashed, and resolved to get them whatever they needed twice over. Halamshiral could well afford it.

On the return trip, it was snowing harder. A few of the soldiers rode ahead to break a path.

Leliana stayed back and looked out for the others and watched Cassandra ride back and forth, her mind returning to happiness and apprehension, both piercing like the cold in her lungs when she remembered last night.

She had never been able to believe the Maker cared about such things. She also knew better than anyone how many secrets were kept in the Cathedral, and couldn’t bring herself to feel bad about this one.

Except inasmuch as Cassandra might, and that was the (stubborn, maddening, knifelike) sticking point.

Breaking her oath to the Seekers when she had every justification had been hard enough for her. There was at least an even chance she would come to her senses and say she couldn’t justify this, and Leliana would yield, and they would go back to honorable austerity in the Maker’s name until they died or killed each other.

She wondered how long she might have.

By the time their little procession reentered the palace grounds, it was growing dark fast. Celene had ordered the third night’s festivities moved inside out of the snow, and fires were roaring and wine flowing.

Leliana walked through the party, gave blessings and pleasantries to masked guests, and watched the usual moves and countermoves playing out across the ballroom, but without her customary excitement. After a long and somewhat tactical conversation, she did secure a promise from Celene herself to send aid to the abbey, which made her feel momentarily better.

Finally, she stopped trying to force it.

She made up something about a night of contemplation and told the guards outside her room not to let either of them be disturbed before she went in.

When the hidden panel closed behind her, she just started talking, wanting to explain herself for once, not knowing what would come.

“Once upon a time, a very long time ago, I wrote a song for someone. I worked on it for months. I wanted to surprise her, so I crept out to find her and played it under her window. I was so convinced she would love it.”

“Surely—” Cassandra started, rising from the chair.

She hadn’t. Leliana shook the memory away. “It was not very good. Later I learned other things to try. But that’s not the point.”

She went to the fire and picked up the poker. “If we weren’t who we are—” She laughed a little. “Well. There would be more I would do, now.” She dug it into the wood, casting up sparks. “Perhaps just as silly.”

“Leliana.” Her voice was right behind, and then her arm was around Leliana’s shoulders. “You would not really write songs for me?”

“Oh, awfully embarrassing ones,” she said. “You’d beg me to stop.”

“Would I?” Cassandra didn’t let go of her.

She set the poker back in the rack. “But no Divine has ever … there will be scandal, for you too, if this is known. No matter what I believe.”

She turned and met her eyes resolutely, not letting herself evade. They were amber and gold, steady, intent. Leliana’s fingertips brushed down the high neck of her robe, the embroideries on her chest.

“Or what I want. Or how much I—” Her voice wavered.

Cassandra breathed in sharply and pulled her tighter, a handful of fabric at her back. She felt threads give and a button skittered on the tiles.

The sensation went straight through her and made her heart skip.

Surrendering what she’d been about to say, she laced fingers into Cassandra’s red collar and forced it apart, sacrificing a whole row of tiny buttons across her shoulder.

Cassandra shrugged her arm out of the sleeve, not looking away, and did the same to her, a long, considered, indecent ripping that seemed loud over their breathing.

Leliana caressed the healed slash over her collarbone in apology, and down her arm as she slid to her knees, and then they were both kneeling, half dressed, crushed against each other, kissing each other like a challenge.

She took her hands and pulled her to the floor, wanting to convince her again to stay on the more dangerous road, despite all the good reasons not to, wanting to reach into her and around her and prove it to her.

Then Cassandra was clutching at the carpet over her head, her arms corded, her back arching over Leliana’s hands, and her body becoming a long reaching line of tension under and over her, heat and slickness under her tongue, agonizingly.

She wanted to hold her there for always. But at last Cassandra’s legs shook, and she shoved the heel of one hand into her mouth to keep from crying out for long seconds, and fell back.

She unknotted her fingers from the carpet then, and opened her eyes, and stretched out her arms to her. The vestments were a crumpled mess of silk and brocade and embroidery on the floor around them. Leliana lay fitting herself to Cassandra’s side as the stormy impulse passed.

She fingered the loose threads on one of the torn seams. “I should not have done that.”

Cassandra reached across for it. “And maybe nor should I. But, traveling with the Inquisitor, I think I mended something every night for a year. This does not look hard.”

Still she hadn’t said it. Leliana ducked out from under her arm and began to search the floor, feeling worse. It might have been satisfying for that instant to tear them, but it was childish and changed nothing.

“I can sew buttons too. That’s not what I mean.”

She set a handful of them on the table and stood up.

“I’ve been stalling and distracting you because I’m afraid of what you will say. But let’s just get it over with.”

She found her shift and slipped the wrinkled linen over her head, then went to the curtain and looked out. “It is the sensible argument. Tell me we can’t go on like this after tonight.”

The moons had set. Lights still glowed behind glass in the palace below. She steeled herself to hear it, prepared an understanding reply.

“No.” Cassandra got up and followed her. “Stand still for one moment.” She frowned and reached for her hand and pulled her back. “I do nothing I cannot carry through with all my heart. You know everything about me. You know this. Leliana, it has taken me a reprehensibly long time to see it, for a Seeker of Truth, but _I love you_.”

Leliana stood baffled against her. The reply died happily in her mouth. The blood beat in her ears.

“And I will not leave you,” Cassandra went on. “Unless you want it. And if the Maker decides someday it is not fitting, He can take it up with me.”

Leliana broke out of her shock and turned. “Say that again.”

“Which part?”

“Any of it.”

Her frown softened. “I love you?”

She felt a wild laugh bubbling up. “Pinch me and say that.”

Cassandra sighed and pinched her shoulder. “I am quite sure this is not the Fade. I love you. Enough?”

“No. Yes.” Leliana flung herself at her.

Cassandra caught her and kissed her, and it was preposterous, but she felt like the sun broke over the horizon around her. “There are many things no Divine has ever done. What is one more unprecedented thing now?”

“When you put it that way.” When she opened her eyes it was still dark, and she didn’t quite believe it. “Why wouldn’t you look at me today?”

“You have told me enough times that I am bad at hiding things.”

“Maker have mercy. Cassandra, I suspect I have loved you for a decade,” and she could have laughed again if the breath weren’t delightfully crushed from her. “Perhaps we are hopeless.”

Her lips curved under Leliana’s. “I would not say that. Come back to bed, and the rest will wait.”

It was quite a while before the sun rose, after all.

 

* * *

 

_Val Royeaux, a month later_

 

Ser Elaine caught herself fidgeting and straightened her back. Hands down, eyes front, soldier, she told herself. Don’t you let me catch you disgracing those pretty new colors.

Seeing the insignia of the Knights-Divine on her shield and breastplate still thrilled her. This, for a knight-captain just five years out of training, and that disrupted by the war. She could still visualize her parents’ faces at the ceremony when Their Holinesses had bestowed the rank on her: goggle-eyed, and even more so afterward when the Divines came down and talked with them.

Elaine had told her mother that was just how they were, but she’d probably repeated the story to everyone in their quarter of the city by now. Even written to her brother in the new Circle, or whatever it was called now. Maybe he’d get to visit.

It was good to be home. She raised her chin, smiling, and glanced at her partner on guard duty, Lysette, who smiled back.

Two grand clerics, Knight-Commander Barris, the Nevarran ambassador, and a messenger from the city magistrate had already come and gone. Most Holy were having a busy day.

She looked out the window across the hall, adjusted her grip on her shield, and thought about her plans for the evening.

After some time, one of the masked palace envoys came down the hall. “I am the messenger of Her Imperial Majesty,” he said, bowing elaborately and holding out an envelope.

Elaine took it from him. “I will see that Their Holinesses get this.” She gave him a level look, and he eventually bowed again and left it with her.

She opened the door to the apartments and walked in cautiously, letter in hand. As she approached, she heard their voices.

“There,” Victoria said. “The last of the old personal staff are reassigned.”

Valeria’s, more faintly: “Good.”

“It will be more efficient this way, and more secure, yes.”

“I thought as much.” Footsteps. “I want to look more into these reports from the Korcari Wilds and the Nahashin, if there is time. I have not given up hope for the Seekers.”

When Elaine stepped into the salon that had become a messy shared study, Divine Victoria sat at the table, a pen in her hand. Divine Valeria was standing by the wall, adjusting pins in a map and glowering at them.

Victoria looked up from her papers and gave Elaine a quick and tired smile. She picked the letter out of Elaine’s hand. Elaine stepped back as she opened it.

“Well,” she said to Valeria after a moment, “separately, it seems Celene now wants to throw a tournament for us and the Inquisition, before that council Ferelden has proposed.”

“Is that really necessary?” Valeria came to the table and leaned over to read it.

“I think there could be better uses for her treasury. Let’s hope the Fereldans don’t counter with a masquerade ball.” Victoria sighed, glanced at the map, and lowered her voice. “So, is that another chance to run away and wander the realm?”

Valeria laughed under her breath. “I would still not object.”

Her hand slipped over Victoria’s on the table, and they looked at each other, and the feeling rose in Elaine that she was intruding. She shuffled her feet a little and cleared her throat.

Victoria glanced back at her. “Oh, thank you, Ser Elaine. You can go.”

She repeated her bow and salute, gauntlet to the new insignia on her chest. “Yes, Most Holy.”

As Elaine left the study, stepping gingerly around the precarious stacks of books and scrolls, Valeria said something too low to hear and Victoria laughed, as she did often now.

She was no scholar of canon law, if it even applied anymore, but whatever was between them was their business. If there even was anything, because Elaine was no expert at that either. But if there was, it would be like something out of the stories. Far above her head. Not for her to say.

For all of her and everything they’d done, Elaine would follow them to the Black City and back, and she knew she wasn’t alone in that.

She pushed through the outer door to the private apartments and resumed her guard stance with a nod. “Let’s not let anyone else bother them today without a very good reason,” she said to Lysette as it closed behind her.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn’t realize when I started it that this would grow into basically a novel and the longest thing I’ve ever written, but thanks for bearing with me if you read it as a WIP!
> 
> I also had [a playlist](https://8tracks.com/thereinafter/transfigurations-12-1) that helped set the tone for most of this fic, if that’s relevant to your interests.
> 
> I don’t really know what I’m going to do with myself now, but there will probably be at least one (shorter!) sequel in this AU (because I want to make this tournament happen).


End file.
